If I were the king
endowed with a sting
I wouldn’t be writing this poem
I ‘d just summon you to court
and when you are on your knees proper
I’d just get you to sing
a song, a poem
that goes:
ding-a-ling-ling
bling-a-ling-a-ling
ding-don g-a-ding-ding

and I’d silence you and pronounce aloud
be telling you then
none in the land writes well at all
and I’ll take your own horrid song from you
and I’ll be telling you:
“Listen to my song
Listen to my poem”
And I’d recite your very own lines to you
And I’d ask you: “What do you think? ”
And of course you’d say,
trembling:
“No one in the land
Sire
in all the wide world -
no one writes like you, Sire”

But that’s if I were King
which I am not
And so I’ll have to sing
and write my own poems
(except when I’m plagiarising)
And you’ll be here nice and honest
just laughing and rolling
as I sing:
*ding-a-ling-ling
bling-a-ling-a-ling
ding-don g-a-ding-ding

(Punch is playing the violin. Judy is on the couch, listening patiently. After some time, Punch stops playing and he speaks...)*


Punch:
Oh, Judy...life's so divine
for me
since I bought this
my first violin
two days ago...

Judy:
For me too, Punch...
Life's not been the same
since you brought the violin home...

Punch:
But oh, Judy - how's
my playing?
Two days I've played
making music -
and how good it is
you've not said!

Judy:
Oh Punch -
you should play on TV!

Punch:
Oh Judy - why, thank you...
Am I so good, darling?

Judy:
No, sweetie
- it's just that
if you were on TV
I could turn off the ****** thing!

I cannot understand
for the life of me
why the wife
(yes, mine own good wife)
cannot attend to my every need
just like the faithful wives
of yore - such paragons of virtue
and forerunners of service departments

Why can’t she
when I cough or ahem
drop everything she’s doing
(including even if she be
attending to her toilet duties)
and do a somersault to the first aid kit
and present me
in nanosecond
a lozenge that might soothe my throat?

At the slightest rumble
of my stomach
why can’t my wife
into the kitchen dive
and before the rumble
turns into a mumble
why can’t she present on the table
a fine set of fare fit for an Emperor…
a wide range of food – I am reasonable –
the best from Saskatchewan and so on
a dish of the the best from every
nation and continent and clime
Now, is that really too much to ask
of a wife for life?


And what about my other needs
and my other multifarious, multitudinous
innumerable
variety of desires and wants and appetites
that from time to time burst like fireworks
that usher in the New Year?
After all I’m human
and have all these desires and wants
through start of day to the moment
I recline in bed
at decline of day…
So why can’t she
ensure the toothpaste is on the toothbrush
at start of my day
and use a fresh towel end
to coax to prominence the shine on my teeth?
And why can’t she have my
clothes neatly pressed and ready on bed
and presto! – when I emerge into the dining hall
should not breakfast be ready on the table
as Ariel would have done for Prospero in “The Tempest”?
Look, as you can see, I am not far
from being reasonable…
And then certainly the shoes should be ready
with a new shine nurtured with cat’s **** or dog’s pooh –
whatever the concoction that may take
to bring out the luster in my shoes
And she can open the door and shut it gently
(that’s the house door)
and she could open the door and shut it gently
(that’s the car door)
as I drive off elegantly
and surely should return
to smiles and glee
and a repeat performance
but varied now to evening needs
and let us not forget me and the wife in bed

And so on, I think you get the drift;
intelligent reader as you are,
I believe you understand
the daily program
the moral imperative
in a wife that’s for life


and you can see
plain and clear as the still sea
how reasonable and natural
and unpretentious, easy, manageable
professional and well-planned and spaced
my demands and needs are and be:
after all
it is my wife
I claim for these services
and Not the President’s or Vladimir Putin’s



And now I’ll throw at you
Sirs and Ladies
the most dramatic question
the parting shot
O the noble Parthian shot -
irrefutable, irreparable, indisputable
absolutely undeniable
and that will make you see the light:
*A wife’s for life, is she not -
and aren’t both made for my convenience?

1
in the fish market of religions
and faiths
and suppositions and declarations
and fierce revelations
much of the commerce is done
on the principle:
Who shouts loudest
and shouts longest
and shouts often-est
gets to empty the most pockets
of bewildered customers

(You always empty their minds
first)

2
You never lose in this fish market
Even the quiet ones
the ones of mild manners and timid ways
can trawl a good number
of faithful customers

3
You can sell fresh fables
or smelly old tales –
they are all good commerce

4
Of course some slap you
right in the face
with their fish:
That too seems to catch customers…

I think you stun them with one blow
and they remain stunted all their lives

(Punch comes home. Judy, his wife, kisses him and asks about his day.)*


Judy:
How was your day at work , darl?

Punch:
Not a good day, sweetie…

Judy:
And why was that, Punch?

Punch:
Oh, the Boss is just overbearing

Judy:
What did he do this time, sweetie?


Punch:
Oh well, he comes in to my table
this morning, right,
and he asks me: “Punch, do you believe
in the after-life?”
An odd question to ask, you’d agree…
Anyway I say: “I do, Mr Blake –
I do believe in the after-life.”
And he says: “Oh, I’m glad you do…”
And he continues:
“Yesterday you asked to go home at noon
You said your grandpa died
And guess what? – 4 hours after you left
a man claiming to be your grandpa
came here looking for you
Said he was in in the vicinity
and he might walk home back with you
There’s sure such a thing as after-life, Punch!”

And all day Mr Blake was having a go at me about ghosts
And all my colleagues too, they were going: “BOO!”
at every chance they got…
Oh, what an embarrassing day…


Judy:
Oh, so you lied to get a half-day off, Punch?
And where were you?
You didn’t come home early yesterday…
Doesn’t look like your day is over, Punch…
Certainly not a good day!

(Punch comes home after work. Judy kisses him and welcomes him back home.)*

Judy:
So how was your day at work, sweetie?

Punch:
Oh that old Boss is always making life tough for me...

Judy:
Oh Punch...what happened?

Punch:
Oh Judy, I went in this morning
30 past the time I was supposed
to be in at work –
OK, I was late, but is that a big thing really? –
and anyway the Boss is at the main entrance
and he sees me come in late
and he says ever so slyly:
“Punch – do you know you are late? ”
And I says to him: “Yes, Mr Blake”
And he says to me:
“And Punch – do you know
That’s the fifth time you’ve been late to work
this week? ”
And I says to the Boss:
“Yes, Mr Blake…”
And the Boss looks at me and he says:
“Fifth time in the week, Punch…
Do you know what that means? ”
And I says:
“Fifth time in the week?
So it’s Friday, Mr Blake? ”

Judy:
Oh Punch - what a silly Boss you've got.
Why doesn't he just check
the calendar if he wants
to know the day or date?

I am Sarah Malcolm -
yes, the one they call the Irish Laundress
and the jury found me guilty of the murders
(the Infamous Murderess)
of Mrs Lydia Duncomb,
Mrs Harrison and the servant Ann Price
in Mrs Lydia’s chamber
at the Inns of Court in the Temple;
and the jury only needed 15 minutes

and there was disbelief when I admitted to robbery
but not ******
and there was disgust
when I said the blood on my clothing was my own menstrual blood
and not the blood of Ann Price:
I had broken a taboo in talking of menstrual blood
for, as they say,
only loose and the not so virtuous women speak that way

and of course even after the judgement
I have been deemed even more guilty
for I am of a different Communion
of the Catholic faith, not Anglican -
just as the Ordinary, James Guthrie described me
in instructing me here at Newgate on the Christian faith;
and I have earned the name now of many
as the evil, barbaric, and stubborn woman

And now Mr Hogarth sketches and paints
that you might have a view of me;
and the appointed date is 7 March 1733
when I will be executed...
and these lines I add to the picture
that you might remember me