Four Two Seven Tops ( A Neat Conjecture )
festive nestlings playing up, most het up indeed, catch my eye
getting jumpy, get the wind up
Beware of swarthy eggsharks, capricious pine martens, pernicious rapine twitchers.
flurry overwrought inside, see insecurity in frenzies uniformity
Consterned as cops vexed fledgers issue squeaky peeps awaiting flaming June in rueful Minnesota
Carried away on arboreal gusts frisk baby leaves,
Martens fast encroach
Two skips is all it took
Two shakes of a lamb’s tail
To wipe out a twentieth century life
spent keeping head above water
Rarely if ever ahead of the game
Trading off lives with careless talk
Having a bit on the side
Giving as good as you got mind you
Sauce for the goose
Is sauce for the gander
Always an eye for a chance,
Jones’ suck up the Jones’s
unhinging light air traffic and small furry animals
o’erleaping avarice; now we send in the homespun drones;
reinforce a no-fly zone around the wasp factory;
Forthcoming static times hang in
a balance of increments crisis;
Till a feral cat let out of the pisspot of despots, tosspots & all their worthy heirs
Declaims this barely adds up to a steaming heap of beans…
So much for no grumbling, Nigel. First thing that came to mind. Poor me! Poor characters, all on the samey-blame me path. It bores me frigid Nigel.
Aja is an island freed of its natives by slavers in 1863 and remained so until the mid-sixties when reclaimed by six intrepid schoolkids
robbed a boat and hid out there for fifteen months in perfect harmony. William Golding was a god bothered soak in his spare time.
Friday on my mind (for it was a Friday); shifty manoeuvres are afoot; a climate of suspicion prevails; all locked down with nowhere to go.
Wanna topic. Lack a tonic. A gin and tonic for the troops (gifted clear sky-blue ideas plucked free from the aether); thought of it twice and got frustrated.
Climbing up the walls. Whit Monday radio news: windows open, summer day, lockdown wobbling, allure of mithra, life lived in one day, back to shitty work tomorrow,
half-term hols from shutdown schools, many will never return, social fabric wearing thin. No subject crops up; birdsong soundtrack palesjust gone nine
comes a moan for all seasons, rut-stuck in a gruesome shamble. Fire breathing vipers lick crusty ankles all hope evaporates for peace come flaming June.
Lining up for the second wave, the seventh is the strongest. Rip tides plunder those too dumb to flee, disbelievers and romcom tourists gather at the river, bored shitless by these endless update spiels,