there was little octopus he just loved to sing
but the thing he loved most of all was the highland fling
he would play his bagpipes and do his little dance
with his funny legs he just love to prance
he just loved the bagpipes he just played away
doing his little jig that made him bright and gay
he was very happy in scottish kilt
with his little hat he wore at a tilt
he just loved the joy that it used bring
he was very happy to do the highland fling.
When I hear those Bagpipes roar,
My heart begins to soar.
Frozen in my tracks,
My mind wanders back.
To a piper I once knew
Whose heart was pure and true.
He played those pipes like angels sing,
I often wondered, "Where are his wings?"
Those bagpipes casted a spell on me,
And that Irish lad's face is all I could see.
I used to weep when those pipes would sound,
Because for the moment my lost heart felt found.
See, that piper is the strongest man I ever met,
But because my heart was immature, I was'nt ready for him yet.
As years pass by, this broken heart has begun to heal.
Yet as soon as I hear those faithful pipes, my heart starts to feel.
Time has a way of putting our mistakes far in the past,
But I have to accept that Celtic sound will forever last.
So when you see that kilt and bearskin come marching in the room,
Do as I do 'listen' and soon your heart will bloom.
For those bagpipes serve a bigger role then i ever knew, That thunderous sound can only come from a select few.
And behind one of those pipes, stands a beautiful man, but he never notices I'm his biggest fan.
Feel the cold air
hear the sounds
that carried us
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell: Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters-
I've a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters-
That is what I am.
Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle-
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style.
Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases-
So the Tale begins.
There was a Pig that sat alone
Beside a ruined Pump:
By day and night he made his moan-
It would have stirred a heart of stone
To see him wring his hoofs and groan,
Because he could not jump.
A certain Camel heard him shout-
A Camel with a hump.
"Oh, is it Grief, or is it Gout?
What is this bellowing about?"
That Pig replied, with quivering snout,
"Because I cannot jump!"
That Camel scanned him, dreamy-eyed.
"Methinks you are too plump.
I never knew a Pig so wide-
That wobbled so from side to side-
Who could, however much he tried,
Do such a thing as jump!
"Yet mark those trees, two miles away,
All clustered in a clump:
If you could trot there twice a day,
Nor ever pause for rest or play,
In the far future-Who can say-
You may be fit to jump."
That Camel passed, and left him there,
Beside the ruined Pump.
Oh, horrid was that Pig's despair!
His shrieks of anguish filled the air.
He wrung his hoofs, he rent his hair,
Because he could not jump.
There was a Frog that wandered by-
A sleek and shining lump:
Inspected him with fishy eye,
And said "O Pig, what makes you cry?"
And bitter was that Pig's reply,
"Because I cannot jump!"
That Frog he grinned a grin of glee,
And hit his chest a thump.
"O Pig," he said, "be ruled by me,
And you shall see what you shall see.
This minute, for a trifling fee,
I'll teach you how to jump!
"You may be faint from many a fall,
And bruised by many a bump:
But, if you persevere through all,
And practice first on something small,
Concluding with a ten-foot wall,
You'll find that you can jump!"
That Pig looked up with joyful start:
"Oh Frog, you are a trump!
Your words have healed my inward smart-
Come, name your fee and do your part:
Bring comfort to a broken heart
By teaching me to jump!"
"My fee shall be a mutton-chop,
My goal this wined Pump.
Observe with what an airy flop
I plant myself upon the top!
Now bend your knees and take a hop,
For that's the way to jump!"
Uprose that Pig, and rushed, full whack,
Against the ruined Pump:
Rolled over like an empty sack
And settled down upon his back
While all his bones at once went "Crack!"
It was a fatal jump.
Little Birds are writing
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted-
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
"Thanks!" they cry. "'Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!"
Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting-
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!
That Camel passed, as Day grew dim
Around the ruined Pump.
"O broken heart! O broken limb!
It needs", that Camel said to him
"Something more fairy-like and slim,
To execute a jump!"
That Pig lay still as any stone
And could not stir a stump:
Nor ever, if the truth were known
Was he again observed to moan
Nor ever wring his hoofs and groan,
Because he could not jump.
That Frog made no remark, for he
Was dismal as a dump:
He knew the consequence must be
That he would never get his fee-
And still he sits, in miserie
Upon that ruined Pump!
Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter-
Merely for the fun.
Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten-
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.
Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled-
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is Told.
One doesn’t need the umlaut of crystal balls, or the augury of an elk’s testicles to see that the Swedish brand of Socialism, fueled by its seductive exports and popular culture, are slowly creeping into the American’s psyche. We need only turn to those xanthodontous soccer hooligans and hot blonde shenanigans across the North Atlantic to envision our future landscape leveled by the Volvo bulldozer of free healthcare, universal education and Casual Fridays extended from Monday through Thursday plus six weeks paid vacation. What next, comrades? Gravlax instead of Nova on our Philadelphia shmeared bagels? Trading in our Harley hogs for sensible green mopeds with no ‘bad boy’ appeal? We can’t keep hot-dogging down this slippery socio-economic slope – even if they affix free all day lift passes on our Five Seasons ski jackets. If this keeps up, our kids will be taught Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky through a Skaga looking glass.
‘Twas brillig, Billy/Nykelby Bokhylla med Glasdörrar
Förnyelsebart material spånet.
Förnyelsebart material träfibern.
Separerbar för material- eller energiutvinning.
Vitrindörr: Materialet i denna produkt kan vara återvinningsbart.
Var vänlig kontrollera vilka återvinningsregler som gäller
I din kommun och om det finns någon återvinningsstation i området.
And the mome raths outgrabe.
I’m just bustin' your chops.. That was part of the instruction sheet that just came with my new IKEA bookcase, the Billy/Nykelby. In my best British accent, I teased the IKEA salesgirl, saying, “What the dickens, are you plum out of Nicholas/Nicklebys! Why, you’ve dealt a serious blow to great expectations of my poor orphans.” Now missing a single chew of her Hubba Bubba, she advised me, “Ya’ know, ya’ should try calling customer service. I’m sure they’ll find you Nicholas/Nickleby.” Anyway, IKEA claims Billy/Nykelby can be assembled in 30 minutes using only the simple ‘L’ shaped hexagonal wrench provided. It neglects to mention that both a postgraduate degree in industrial engineering and a fully equipped cabinet making shop is also required. So, after four hours of validating the limitless boundaries of my manual incompetence, I used the wrench to pry open a bottle of Göteborg beer, phoned Maja for a full release Swedish massage and then watched Sweden beat Greece in Euro 2008 with an incredible goal by that great Swedish football player, Zlatan Ibrahimovic.
The Swedes are now seducing us with their seductive exports. Of course, the most popular Swedish import in America is pornography, closely followed by lap-dancing. The latter was originally called Lapp dancing, a medieval folk dance by native Swedish women that mimics the mating rituals of an elk. This sounded fishy. To get to the bottom of this, I met my compare, Anthony ‘Baddabing’ Pescimorti, who owns a popular New Jersey strip club called The Swedish Rub. He shared with me this enlightening anthropological footnote – transcribed verbatim:
Anthony: Honestly, I just can’t see a male elk putting a 100 Kronor notes in the G-string of the female elk, but I’m no Margaret-Fucking-Mead, if you know what I mean. And speaking of botanists, I was told that some other Swedish oobatz, Carl Von Line, died ‘mysteriously’ of wounds he sustained by being back-kicked by an ‘animal’. Yeah, ‘animal’ my ass. My goombahs in Stockholm got me the real dope on this deal. Our boy Carl tried to slip some sweet assed elk a 20-Kronor in her G-string for some ‘backdoor’ action, instead of a 100-Kronor note, because his face was on the 100 bill and he wanted to be anonymous. That elk was pissed! Madonn’, you got to tip those bitches good, or they’ll hoof you to death. I see it every day in this joint. Excuse me a second. Ey, Bridget, get off your big culo and bring me and my guest here some gabagool! We’re starving here.
Bridget:Vara tyst du dum apa! Just a minute hon’. My nails are still drying.
Anthony: You believe this shit? Where do these fucking people come from!
End of transcript/recorded 04/23/2013/Atlantic City, NJ
Another Swedish import involves the enhanced interrogation techniques used at Guantanamo to elicit sensitive information from suspected terrorists. Prisoners are forced to listen to Swedish Kulning cow herd ballads. These songs are accompanied by Sweden’s notorious instruments of torture, the nyckelharpa (inspired by fingernails on a balloon), the Swedish bagpipes (inspired by fingernails throttling a sheep holding a balloon), and the Swedish accordion played by a capuchin monkey (inspired by the sound of Queen Silvia having a bowel movement). In a matter of seconds, the most hardened Jihad terrorist starts singing like a canary, spilling the beans on the locations of terrorist cells, all their contacts and precisely where to buy the best falafel and hummus combo platters – which all turn out to be the same place. In the rare instance that the Kulning torture technique doesn’t do the trick, the tight-lipped camel jockeys are put in a poorly ventilated room and exposed to surströmming, the Swedish national delicacy of fermented herring. One whiff of the stuff and poof, Mustafa folds like a pair of deuces. The odor is so foul it’s rumored that even the accordion monkey in the interrogation room once confessed to having stolen bananas, yogurt and yellow cake uranium from the mess hall fridge.
My sources reveal that the Pentagon imported 3.6 cubic tons of surströmming in 2013 from Sweden and are retrofitting their entire ICBM arsenal with this noisome payload. The idea here is not to kill our enemies. We just want them vacate their countries. Then we harass them to death by continuously rejecting their applications for an American visa. The Pentagon has given this operation codename ‘Cartman-Nya-Nya-Nya-Nye-Nya-Nya’. Moreover, the media pundits have aptly named these new surströmming missiles WADs: Weapons of Ass Destruction.
I phoned Sweden’s Minister of Finance, Anders Borg, on my Nokia Lumia 925, and asked, “Is it true that the Swedes are taking over America through a gradual process of socio-economic assimilation?”
Borg laughed, and said, “What! You must be hitting the glögg. If they had a Nobel Prize for idiots, you’d win it. So, please stop talking out of your ass without an ångström of evidence and creating all this unfounded paranoia.” Borg then added, in a peculiar, cybernetic voice, “Resistance is futile. Resistance is futile…”
"Borg is a collective proper noun for a fictional alien race that appears as recurring antagonists in various incarnations of the Star Trek franchise. The Borg are a collection of species that have been turned into cybernetic organisms functioning as drones of the Collective, or the hive. A pseudo-race, dwelling in the Star Trek universe, the Borg force other species into their collective and connect them to "the hive mind"; the act is called assimilation and entails violence, abductions, and injections of microscopic machines called nanoprobes. The Borg's ultimate goal is "achieving perfection"...The Borg have become a symbol in popular culture for any juggernaut against which "resistance is futile"...Individual Borg rarely speak. Instead, they send a collective audio message to their targets stating that "resistance is futile", followed by a declaration that the target in question will be assimilated and its "biological and technological distinctiveness" will be added to their own."
For my other Swedish parody pieces please visit:
IKEA Haiku in Swedish
Dante's Inferno Sign at IKEA's Entrance
Sore feet and the sun beating into the store window drew me in,
sequestering me for a little siesta while no one was shopping.
In the distance I heard the bagpipes begin to play and I smiled.
You see, the fact is that this man only knows two songs
and he plays them repeatedly over and over.
Behind him, the workers from the Cider House next door
were hauling in the apple press. Onlookers and children seemed pleased.
It made me smile inside. For a moment time felt surreal.
The smell of fresh pressed apples, while the sun beat down on my face
and the soft North wind blew through the door was Norman Rockwell
type bliss. That's when I noticed him.
He was about four. Taking the red apples up and handing them
to his Father to press. His white blond hair and blue eyes invaded
my senses immediately.
Watching the Father work with his son made my mind wander. To the days
of innocence with my own son...then further to the days of my own innocence.
The little boy caught my gaze and I wept inside his soul if only for a moment.
Do you even remember those pure days? Where body, mind and spirit were
untarnished, untouched? When a smile was backed by simple contentment and
touch of one hand upon another was far beyond the divine we seek. When the soft
voice of an earth angel would sing against the senses and be absorbed as if it were
My heart started to hurt with these thoughts
and within seconds the burn of my reality vaporized my presence inside his
purity and I was gone. I left him unscathed.
There I was in my store window, gazing out on a moment taken for granted. Because
after all aren't we all forever? I asked the universe to keep him from the reality of life.
To protect his fine soul while imprinting Armour that would keep
even fire breathing dragons from him.
I despise my own cynicism and yet here it is. Why do we still create such beauty, while knowing
full well what's ahead, what's in store for him in this world?
I'm over society's thoughts that gauge our growth process claiming all “this” is our
evolution and making us better people. I was better people....I was that little boy in female form.
I had that same look in my eyes and was capable of truth and touch.
Now I am the polar opposite of all that was once good.
Some loss was definitively by choice and for that I am totally accountable, some were stolen...with
no one willing to be accountable.
Looking at the clock and saddened by my own lack of love and hope I alone closed the door.
Alone, like always, in all ways.
My bare feet hitting against that damn dirty carpet as I turn off the lights. Concrete would be
As I got into the car it started to rain. Thinking still of that little face, while a frog jumped out
in front of my car. It's dead now. Funny isn't it? Finding a place of grace, while death brought me
back to my reality.
Maybe I've been dead far to long, and it's time to decompose.
In my new book..I wrote
“To better appreciate the light in our lives, we have to walk through the dark”.
The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
the King will soon surrender”.
The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Pieces, pacing, pale and wan,
watch Queen deflowered, Pawn by Pawn,
The Knights dare not defend her.
They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One that they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
they’re black and white, transgender.
The feeble minded Cleric clowns,
mouths hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds,
while Fantom of the Opera frowns
when blessing bent repenters.
The empty handed Vagabond
smokes stale cigars, strokes faded Blondes,
waits wailing at the walls beyond,
and kneels before he enters.
While peeking through the window panes
in fear of distant Hurricanes,
they’re spinning round and round in chains,
defying life’s tormentors.
The Savants serve the underfed
while Jackals scrape the river bed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
adorn, with crumbs, the platter.
The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if instead he’s served the plague,
it really doesn’t matter.
His Princess, Pale, no longer feigns,
she’s hiding from (the Dwarf explains)
the coming of the Hurricanes.
The Stones stare, pointing at her.
The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
but No One looks to listen.
The Joker Wilde and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
and Priests no longer christen.
They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans.
While pitching pennies into ponds,
their eyes opaquely glisten.
The Hunchbacks with their twisted canes
will bow before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
in bruised and battered sandals.
Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
for Night Time brooks no candles.
Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
though taunting to the Vandals .
The Beggars, neath the balustrades,
stop chiding Children, Chambermaids,
for darning socks with broken blades,
as screams in dreams redouble.
Reweaving webs with endless threads,
crocheting hats to hide their heads,
they have no coats, they have no beds,
their faces, full of rubble.
Yet something else will entertain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with pink champagnes
dissolve in purple bubbles.
The White-Robed Maiden empties trash,
and fumbles with an untied sash,
– her virgin urn’s awash in ash –
she’s pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes converge in coffee spoons
(her memories adrift in dunes),
yet still she smiles with teeth like prunes,
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains
– the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains –
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and his Four-Inch Queens,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of minutes lost or stolen.
They stumble through the old domains,
but cannot stop the Hurricanes –
the fountain weeps, the mountain wanes,
the waves just keep on rollin’.
The Crowds arrayed in jewels, in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails –
the vacuum in their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They’re sleeping there because they must,
their eyelids twitch like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust,
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
Another year, another Paddies day,
Here in New York, hope for sun to play.
So the Irish celebration, takes winged flight,
Green is the color in everyone's sight.
Parade in the street, down fifth avenue.
The master of ceremony, we don't know who?
But the master this day, stands as St. Pat,
Clad in green, with a leprechaun's hat.
Hear the bagpipes, the drums pounding loud,
This is the Irish day, to stand and be proud!
A Catholic holiday, dietary sanctions they lift,
Eat meat and drink alcohol, is the Popes gift.
What are we celebrating? Let's take a closer look,
Power up the computer or crack open a book.
St. Patrick was born under English rule,
His family was clergy, formally educated in school.
Kidnapped by the Irish, and held as a slave,
To journey back to England he must be brave.
He returned one day to the Irish shore,
About the eternal Trinity, the Irish learned more.
A bishop now, native clove he did use,
To teach the Irish, about celestial clues.
About the father and son and the holy ghost,
The three leaves on a shamrock, they will forever toast!
The three leaves of a shamrock, and it's circular shape,
Are the same as God's Trinity, the logic you can't escape.
This is why the shamrock is so highly revered,
Wear one on your vest, or tucked into your beard.
Enjoy the day, celebrate with family and friend,
Toast to St. Patrick, may his legacy never end!
go with your flow cause when you hold
on to fear it slows everyone down
like when your clothes get soaked.
Aren't you tired of listening to that cold sounding channel?
Switching frequencies to love is like donning
a warm flannel blanket but
our minds are a storm of thoughts pouring
down in a rusty trough filled w/ GMO foods
bathed in pesticides--
we've forgotten the well deep inside ourselves
it transcends space and time cause
we're with the divine one teaching us lessons like
a father does with sons and sometimes we don't understand,
it's ok, we're human
class is always in session
jamming like musicians listening for the groove--
the beat and rhythm our self produces to dance to,
a soothing tune like fresh water splashing our dry tongue
a song sung from nourished hearts
where every action is artistic as we listen to our one connection
hitting our ear playing our lungs like bagpipes
bodies in vibration swaying with reckless abandon
dancing like when man first discovered fire
to enlighten up a whole nation.
it's pretty early to think about this
but what the fuck am I going to do when I want to get married?
fuck, I haven't been to one in years.
I can't feel the love
from a misogynistic, moody, bearded man on a cloud throne
who spends his time making stupid rules
and cosmic thumb-twiddling.
and since I'm kind of afraid of committing to a set of religious rules
(silly me for thinking religion should be an entirely personal experience, right?)
I really can't join anything other than what I already "am"
which is, like,
a white gown?
what does that symbolize, virginity?
I guess my dress will be
I'm not even going to pretend I'm sorry.
(white is boring anyway.)
stupid-ass ugly flowers.
I like wildflowers
and if people ask me why I don't have roses
I'll point them to where they can get
some poison ivy.
"here comes the bride" on the organ?
how about a Scottish reel
on the bagpipes?
or something fun
played by a jazz band.
it is a celebration, is it not?
fuck drab music.
hair and makeup?
my hair's such a wavy curly mass
I just leave it
and I'm too lazy to bother with makeup.
the man I'm going to be marrying
won't be marrying the same person
if I paint all over myself
and pin my hair up
like a creepy-ass doll.
maybe I'm just weird
because I think romance is lame
and I don't like
or empty ritual
I guess all I know is that my wedding
is going to be