He’s got a bagel on his head,
Not a Cornish Pastie, nor a slice of bread;

Not a Singin’ Hinny, nor a Bacon Roll,
Not Bedfordshire Clanger nor Toad-in-the-Hole;

Black Buns from Scotland pass him by,
No Jammy Rascals, nor Stargazy Pie;

No Bakewell Tarts, and no Teisen Lap,
No Apple Dumplings adorn his cap;

No scones from Devon spread with cream and jam;
Just a crispy bagel full of cheese and ham.

Bagels are the coolest, bagels are the best:
Up with the bagels and down with the rest.
Onwards and upwards, long may it be said:
He’s got a bagel on his head.

He’s got a bagel on his head (February 28 2017).
He’s got a bagel on his head,
Not a Cornish Pastie, nor a slice of bread;

Not a Singin’ Hinny, nor a Bacon Roll,
Not Bedfordshire Clanger nor Toad-in-the-Hole;

Black Buns from Scotland pass him by,
No Jammy Rascals, nor Stargazy Pie;

No Bakewell Tarts, and no Teisen Lap,
No Apple Dumplings adorn his cap;

No scones from Devon spread with cream and jam;
Just a crispy bagel full of cheese and ham.

Bagels are the coolest, bagels are the best:
Up with the bagels and down with the rest.
Onwards and upwards, long may it be said:
He’s got a bagel on his head.

He’s got a bagel on his head (February 28 2017).
He’s got a bagel on his head,
Not a Cornish Pastie, nor a slice of bread;

Not a Singin’ Hinny, nor a Bacon Roll,
Not Bedfordshire Clanger nor Toad-in-the-Hole;

Black Buns from Scotland pass him by,
No Jammy Rascals, nor Stargazy Pie;

No Bakewell Tarts, and no Teisen Lap,
No Apple Dumplings adorn his cap;

No scones from Devon spread with cream and jam;
Just a crispy bagel full of cheese and ham.

Bagels are the coolest, bagels are the best:
Up with the bagels and down with the rest.
Onwards and upwards, long may it be said:
He’s got a bagel on his head.

Terror steed.
He drinks from the well
where Mimir’s head
hoards the runes.

His avatars stand in forgotten corners.
I found one in a fragment of green
saved from the sprawl of the Great Wen;

his grey trunk was lightning-scarred,
yet bravely he held up his broken arms,
and under his root, bees were nesting.

Beset by serpents, nibbled by stags,
still he bears up the weight of the world.
Without his breath, the air we breathe

would choke, not nourish. Our lives hang
on his outspread arms, athirst for the sweet
inspiring ale which Bragi brews.

Wisdom’s words
lie in the well;
you must ride the terror-steed to read them,

but the price is high, and few will pay it,
though one eye sees more clearly than two
how when the ash shakes the earth trembles,

and terror-steed bears off the quick and the dead.

Snow on the far heights spills over
their shoulders, drops down to feed
deep streams crossing wide moorland,

where wind-blown trees whisper, overtopping
tangles of grass, and outcrops of stone
break through bramble and barren thorn.

Easily over the pathless land
she comes, on a waning moon, clasping
a grey cloak at her white throat.

Raven sits on a branch above
shapeless stone, stropping his beak;
he and she are akin, a merry meeting.

‘Well-met, brother – whence are you come
with your beak all ****** from breaking your fast?
What word do you bring from the world of men?’

He turns his bright eye towards her:
‘Battle is joined in the world below,
from all peoples men are mustered,

enough for us all, even the eagles,
nor need we vie with the grey wolf;
the feast is spread to feed us all.

Blow up your fire, sister, boil your cauldron;
a heavy harvest will fill your hall.’
She smiles, and makes for the autumn woods

where, below the moor, the turning trees
dwindle in dusk as their bright burden
burns away.

I love to see the springtime
The wheat green in the blade,
And all the sweetly singing birds
in every blossoming glade;
and the pretty red blood on the fresh grass
where the dead men are laid.

Cats upon a summer’s day
lying indolently down,
black and white, and silver-grey,
tabby, golden, ginger, brown,

on the catmint sprawled at ease,
breathing its sublime aroma,
shape their visions as they please
in a slumbrous catmint-coma.

Lands with rivers full of cream
stuffed with every kind of fish,
trout and salmon, plaice and bream,
fresh-cooked on a silver dish;

Cushion-trees with leaves of silk,
if a cat should seek repose,
overhang the Lake of Milk
where Roast-Chicken Forest grows.

Lean and hungry mogs and toms
grow to an enormous fatness
where nor dog nor human comes
to disturb their perfect Catness.

Dreaming in the afternoon
with closed eyes and folded paws,
cats regain their wits, and soon
they unsheathe their polished claws.

When the sun between the trees
stripes the lawn with blacks and golds,
tiger-cats, with guileful ease
prowl among the marigolds.