Forth upon the Gitche Gumee,
On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
With his fishing-line of cedar,
Of the twisted bark of cedar,
Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma,
Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes,
In his birch canoe exulting
All alone went Hiawatha.

  Through the clear, transparent water
He could see the fishes swimming
Far down in the depths below him;
See the yellow perch, the Sahwa,

  Like a sunbeam in the water,
See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish,
Like a spider on the bottom,
On the white and sandy bottom.

  At the stern sat Hiawatha,
With his fishing-line of cedar;
In his plumes the breeze of morning
Played as in the hemlock branches;
On the bows, with tail erected,
Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo;
In his fur the breeze of morning
Played as in the prairie grasses.

  On the white sand of the bottom
Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma,
Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes;
Through his gills he breathed the water,
With his fins he fanned and winnowed,
With his tail he swept the sand-floor.

  There he lay in all his armor;
On each side a shield to guard him,
Plates of bone upon his forehead,
Down his sides and back and shoulders
Plates of bone with spines projecting!
Painted was he with his war-paints,
Stripes of yellow, red, and azure,
Spots of brown and spots of sable;
And he lay there on the bottom,
Fanning with his fins of purple,
As above him Hiawatha
In his birch canoe came sailing,
With his fishing-line of cedar.

  “Take my bait!” cried Hiawatha,
Down into the depths beneath him,
“Take my bait, O sturgeon, Nahma!
Come up from below the water,
Let us see which is the stronger!”
And he dropped his line of cedar
Through the clear, transparent water,
Waited vainly for an answer,
Long sat waiting for an answer,
And repeating loud and louder,
“Take my bait, O King of Fishes!”

  Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma,
Fanning slowly in the water,
Looking up at Hiawatha,
Listening to his call and clamor,
His unnecessary tumult,
Till he wearied of the shouting;
And he said to the Kenozha,
To the pike, the Maskenozha,
“Take the bait of this rude fellow,
Break the line of Hiawatha!”

  In his fingers Hiawatha
Felt the loose line **** and tighten;
As he drew it in, it tugged so
That the birch canoe stood endwise,
Like a birch log in the water,
With the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
Perched and frisking on the summit.

  Full of scorn was Hiawatha
When he saw the fish rise upward,
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha,
Coming nearer, nearer to him,
And he shouted through the water,
“Esa! esa! shame upon you!
You are but the pike, Kenozha,
You are not the fish I wanted,
You are not the King of Fishes!”

  Reeling downward to the bottom
Sank the pike in great confusion,
And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma,
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
To the bream, with scales of crimson,
“Take the bait of this great boaster,
Break the line of Hiawatha!”

  Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming,
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
Seized the line of Hiawatha,
Swung with all his weight upon it,
Made a whirlpool in the water,
Whirled the birch canoe in circles,
Round and round in gurgling eddies,
Till the circles in the water
Reached the far-off sandy beaches,
Till the water-flags and rushes
Nodded on the distant margins.

  But when Hiawatha saw him
Slowly rising through the water,
Lifting up his disk refulgent,
Loud he shouted in derision,
“Esa! esa! shame upon you!
You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
You are not the fish I wanted,
You are not the King of Fishes!”

  Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming,
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish,
And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
Heard the shout of Hiawatha,
Heard his challenge of defiance,
The unnecessary tumult,
Ringing far across the water.

  From the white sand of the bottom
Up he rose with angry gesture,
Quivering in each nerve and fibre,
Clashing all his plates of armor,
Gleaming bright with all his war-paint;
In his wrath he darted upward,
Flashing leaped into the sunshine,
Opened his great jaws, and swallowed
Both canoe and Hiawatha.

  Down into that darksome cavern
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha,
As a log on some black river,
Shoots and plunges down the rapids,
Found himself in utter darkness,
Groped about in helpless wonder,
Till he felt a great heart beating,
Throbbing in that utter darkness.

  And he smote it in his anger,
With his fist, the heart of Nahma,
Felt the mighty King of Fishes
Shudder through each nerve and fibre,
Heard the water gurgle round him
As he leaped and staggered through it,
Sick at heart, and faint and weary.

  Crosswise then did Hiawatha
Drag his birch-canoe for safety,
Lest from out the jaws of Nahma,
In the turmoil and confusion,
Forth he might be hurled and perish.
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
Frisked and chattered very gayly,
Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha
Till the labor was completed.

  Then said Hiawatha to him,
“O my little friend, the squirrel,
Bravely have you toiled to help me;
Take the thanks of Hiawatha,
And the name which now he gives you;
For hereafter and forever
Boys shall call you Adjidaumo,
Tail-in-air the boys shall call you!”

  And again the sturgeon, Nahma,
Gasped and quivered in the water,
Then was still, and drifted landward
Till he grated on the pebbles,
Till the listening Hiawatha
Heard him grate upon the margin,
Felt him strand upon the pebbles,
Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes,
Lay there dead upon the margin.

  Then he heard a clang and flapping,
As of many wings assembling,
Heard a screaming and confusion,
As of birds of prey contending,
Saw a gleam of light above him,
Shining through the ribs of Nahma,
Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls,
Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering,
Gazing at him through the opening,
Heard them saying to each other,
“’Tis our brother, Hiawatha!”

  And he shouted from below them,
Cried exulting from the caverns:
“O ye sea-gulls! O my brothers!
I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma;
Make the rifts a little larger,
With your claws the openings widen,
Set me free from this dark prison,
And henceforward and forever
Men shall speak of your achievements,
Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls,
Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers!”

  And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls
Toiled with beak and claws together,
Made the rifts and openings wider
In the mighty ribs of Nahma,
And from peril and from prison,
From the body of the sturgeon,
From the peril of the water,
They released my Hiawatha.

  He was standing near his wigwam,
On the margin of the water,
And he called to old Nokomis,
Called and beckoned to Nokomis,
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma,
Lying lifeless on the pebbles,
With the sea-gulls feeding on him.

  “I have slain the Mishe-Nahma,
Slain the King of Fishes!” said he;
“Look! the sea-gulls feed upon him,
Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls;
Drive them not away, Nokomis,
They have saved me from great peril
In the body of the sturgeon,
Wait until their meal is ended,
Till their craws are full with feasting,
Till they homeward fly, at sunset,
To their nests among the marshes;
Then bring all your pots and kettles,
And make oil for us in Winter.”

  And she waited till the sun set,
Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun,
Rose above the tranquil water,
Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls,
From their banquet rose with clamor,
And across the fiery sunset
Winged their way to far-off islands,
To their nests among the rushes.

  To his sleep went Hiawatha,
And Nokomis to her labor,
Toiling patient in the moonlight,
Till the sun and moon changed places,
Till the sky was red with sunrise,
And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls,
Came back from the reedy islands,
Clamorous for their morning banquet.

  Three whole days and nights alternate
Old Nokomis and the seagulls
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma,
Till the waves washed through the rib-bones,
Till the sea-gulls came no longer,
And upon the sands lay nothing
But the skeleton of Nahma.

Nicola Sturgeon
Needs no urging.
Scottish trouble,
Let’s burst her bubble.
She wants to split the UK
And make it rubble.
Theresa May thinks she’s the dregs.
The papers? They only ask,
(Nicola and Theresa) -
Who’s got the better legs?

Paul Butters

With the wind under my wings I soar
I see the west Canadian shore
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
Nuu-chan-nulth – A caring and nurturing people are thee
Small families among the mountains, rivers, and sea
Vancouver Island’s west coast is where you reside
Awaiting your canoes on evenings incoming tide

Your men are fishing in the ocean’s secret places
Worry and hope etched in their weathered faces
Each man knowing the days hunting success must provide
For many wives, children, and elders the spoils they must divide

Your rhythm and harmony with the ocean is strong
Whale hunts and oceans spirits intertwined through your song
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
I hear the east call, and open my wings to take flight
The distant drum’s heartbeat calls from the suns rising light
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
Coast Salish – You know how the sea dances and quivers
As you watch the expanse from your inlets, and rivers
Vigilance is needed in case a Storm approaches
To mount a defence if an enemy encroaches.

Your wise headmen lead with such divine humility
Your family life embodies true equality
Your features are defined by a broad face and flat brow
Your girls with plucked brows, braided hair prepare for their vow

You seasonally harvest your rivers resources
Spawning Eulachon and sturgeon complete their courses
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
As I leave your forests of tall cedars and aged fir
The drumming beckons me up the wild Fraser River
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war


Okanagan – You survive in the Valley and slopes
In a legend of a coyote you set your hopes
He educated you how to live off the hard land
Your very own lives you bestowed in his paw like hand

Your offspring, your joy, your future you know must be taught
So at an early age, to the elders they were brought
Your youths are handpicked and taught the roll they shall assume
If a warrior shall fall another shall resume

Your seasonal harvest of forest meadows and marsh
Will insure you survival when the winters are harsh
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
With the updrafts I glide over the dry desert plains
I hear the drum call from a land where it hardly rains
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
Secwépemc – your men come out through the eastern sunrise’s door
Your women’s entrance faces the stream to ease her chore
In seasonal cozy houses built into the ground
In a secret place your spoils and possessions are found

Your request for spawning salmon grows louder each day
The messenger crickets announce salmons on their way
You hunt with arrows and spears you crafted from strong stone
Needles and jewelry you made from animal bone

You patiently, wait in the winter’s silent brisk eve  
For the deer’s stealthy approach from the snow covered trees  
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
The drum it beckons from the land of river crossroads
The land where men come to bring and trade their canoes loads
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war


Dakelh – You are the people who learned how to barter
You are known as the people who travel on water
With gathered roots you weave fish weirs in the evening air
And you set your high hopes in the chanted salmon prayer

Your children learn from the oral traditions you tell
Chinlac massacres, caves where dwarves shooting arrows dwell
Your widows carry ashes of the husband they held dear
Their Mourning and sadness that will last over a year

The respect for the land for everything you have gain
Though much, and bountiful your harvest some shall remain
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoess, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
A plume of smoke and drum beat come from the distant Northwest
Echoing from the place where the Skeena River rests
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war

Gitxsan –Your Home is surrounded by snow tipped glaciers
Forests of spruce, hemlock, cedars, and subalpine firs
Your chieftain name and duties you hold for a short time
Other Wilp members are only ‘children’ in their prime

Like the rivers your families closely intertwine
Each account told is a lesson that is sublime
Each Wilp has your story told by a tall totem pole
Your History affects and moves you deep in your soul

Deer, Moose, and small mammal in the wild woodlands you stalk
You pursue the Mountain goat through rugged peaks of rock
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
The drums incessantly pounds as I take to the sky
Urgently calling from remote islands of Haida Gwaii
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war

Haida - You live in the pacific northern islands
Your fam’lies Belong to the eagle or raven clans
You watch the tide rise and fall over the rocks and sand
Great mighty sculptures you have created with your hand

With strong healthy cedar trees you made your long dwellings
The entrance way totem your history is telling
Your warrior canoes glide through the rolling waves
Through victories and battles you have prisoner slaves


The sound of the drum beat is mixed in saltwater spray
To Vancouver Island’s west shore I must fine my way
The drum it echo, echo, echo’s, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
As I leave your vast, and memorable territory
In the soft twilight air I watch the sunset’s glory
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war

Kwakwakawakw- So proud you are of your mother tongue
Born in this beautiful land your ancestors came from
Noblemen, Aristocrats, commoners and your slaves
Your narrative exists among your forefathers graves

Your canoes bow is carved into animal features
The whale, otter, salmon and other sea creatures
You hunt with such heroic assurance all year round
In the shapes of well carved masks their likeness will abound

Your long homes are protected by the oceans embrace
First nations, my people, you are a amazing race
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
I leave your land of legends in a misty gray veil
And on the horizons comes change’s white sail
The drum it echoes, echoes, echoes, the drum it echoes through my core
Whispering a haunting rhythm of time, change, and war
The Europeans came into your isolated lands
Dividing your people into tribes, reserves, and bands
Before their arrival you lived mighty, strong, and free
Now your children fight to reclaim their identity

The drum will echo, echo, echo through time’s core
It will whisper a rhythm of time, change, and war
The drum will echo, echo, echo through your core
It will whisper a rhythm of time, change, and war

sturgeon moon hides
behind woolly clouds
fishing at night


Shell✨🐚

from The Song of Hiawatha

By the shore of Gitchie Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.
All the air was full of freshness,
All the earth was bright and joyous,
And before him through the sunshine,
Westward toward the neighboring forest
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo,
Passed the bees, the honey-makers,
Burning, singing in the sunshine.
Bright above him shown the heavens,
Level spread the lake before him;
From its ***** leaped the sturgeon,
Aparkling, flashing in the sunshine;
On its margin the great forest
Stood reflected in the water,
Every tree-top had its shadow,
Motionless beneath the water.
From the brow of Hiawatha
Gone was every trace of sorrow,
As the fog from off the water,
And the mist from off the meadow.
With a smile of joy and triumph,
With a look of exultation,
As of one who in a vision
Sees what is to be, but is not,
Stood and waited Hiawatha.

I mean, it felt like I was a dead fish
Or something, left to rot out there in the sun,
Left there on purpose, you know, like it was
A threat—and Charles, it stinks—you know that?—
—the stench of all those old thoughts—
Yeah, thoughts…you know,
Like guppies maybe, sturgeon, or flounder.
You laugh? Why? Fish can think, can’t they? They flounder.
Suppose as we grow old the ancient thoughts
Appear as songs a child might sing—sotto voce.
Suppose they’re like the masks the actors wore
In some Commedia dell’Arte farce,
Or like the web a spider strings across
A road, hidden, dark, all subtle tension,
The strands still wet with the coagulate air…
Too wet to breath, Charles, way too wet.

There’s more. Suppose a face inside that mask
Looks back, looks out. Suppose the rings run circles round
The eyes, for fear. Suppose it’s an old face of yours,
Charles, smiling too, with all that sullen pride
You once were so capable of…so proud.
This is not the Lone Ranger, kimosabi.
Not Zorro either. Man is least himself
When he talks in his own person. So let’s
Try on that mask, shall we?
One for you and one for me.
Masks aplenty, masks abound,
Masks askance…
There, it fits. Welcome, Charles. Welcome back.

And welcome ghost.

…a ghost to prompt you in your mask, a ghost
off stage, and hoarse from shouting, diaphanous,
just like the real thing: for curiously,

at that moment while he is in you,
in situ, as it were, I will be left
au naturel—yeah, me—king for a day.
We were all meant to crawl away from the sea,
were we not?

…and I count the collective ghosts here too,
Charles…
… atavistic, frightened, unaneled,
and openly integumentary
(thus, open to the sea, but repellant
to air)
—owls, Orion, a star-scarred sky,
too cold to breath that night,
too cold not to, eh, Charles?
Like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza,
like Hamlet and Horatio,
out with the watch, in search
of ghosts and fathers…
ghosts and fathers, Charles.
You remember that?
Back then, when you used to listen to me
when I spoke. You did listen, then, Charles when
I said things, right?
All those old thoughts…
When I could sing…
Charles?

He is said to have been the last Red man
In Acton. And the Miller is said to have laughed—
If you like to call such a sound a laugh.
But he gave no one else a laugher’s license.
For he turned suddenly grave as if to say,
“Whose business,—if I take it on myself,
Whose business—but why talk round the barn?—
When it’s just that I hold with getting a thing done with.”
You can’t get back and see it as he saw it.
It’s too long a story to go into now.
You’d have to have been there and lived it.
They you wouldn’t have looked on it as just a matter
Of who began it between the two races.

Some guttural exclamation of surprise
The Red man gave in poking about the mill
Over the great big thumping shuffling millstone
Disgusted the Miller physically as coming
From one who had no right to be heard from.
“Come, John,” he said, “you want to see the wheel-pint?”

He took him down below a cramping rafter,
And showed him, through a manhole in the floor,
The water in desperate straits like frantic fish,
Salmon and sturgeon, lashing with their tails.
The he shut down the trap door with a ring in it
That jangled even above the general noise,
And came upstairs alone—and gave that laugh,
And said something to a man with a meal-sack
That the man with the meal-sack didn’t catch—then.
Oh, yes, he showed John the wheel-pit all right.

love of my life sturgeon and lego 09.10.18

never going to upstage
lego you really got front
just like LG and rage
when farrokh was called a goofy ----.
easy to over ride theresa
say it live of radio ga-ga
nicola i will pay by visa
better steps then may and abba.
a black wig will be stunning
pink lipstick to be true
can you hoover while stage running
on train to scotland for breakthru.
mondays news did blow
with queen never any sinister
lego and monday made me glow
no innuendo but leaving queen for first minister.

Today I am slickly coated
with the sheen of a long walk,
only holding hands with purpose;
the goal to find it.
The destination that holds promise
according to the latest yelp reviews-
promise worth remembering
while bearing the heat of the summer subways,
the morose and lonely feeling
of watching a couple cling to each other
as the trains swing our bodies around.
When the stench of the city streets-
the receptacles for those
who can't wait any longer,
invade our noses like they were home.
The promise that morphs into ringing
in my head when my stomach grumbles
next to the carts on the sidewalks
with the burning flesh they call halal meat,
smells warm and familiar
sharing shish kabob kisses and chicken knishes,
but I've left those days behind me.
Now I'm scouring the streets of Brooklyn,
for that new chic creperie sans animals,
things with faces, or friends if you will,
screaming "Find me!"
whilst dodging the heady scents of Popeye's,
and bacon egg and cheeses,
meat markets, fish markets, bright moving ads,
of women ******* clad eating burgers.
Would you like lox or sturgeon with that bagel?
and when I do get to the little mom-and-pop
of a hole-in-the-wall cafe,
I think of the carnivorous brothers and sisters
that have had the meatballs to join me.
The countless nights I've had to explain
where I get my protein from,
that yes, I can eat pizza.
And no, it's not a travesty
that I want to give up cheese.
Because the real travesty is in the this country's handling
of living things, and by animals- I mean all of us.
And carnivorous brothers and sisters,
when you're feeling threatened and defensive- and you've got
guilt and entitlement coursing through your
friend-fed veins and thus you claim,
We're shoving our vegan, vegetarian, pescetarian
efforts down your throats.
Think again and know that we're only doing the best
we can to help what we believe in.
That we eat and live
with purpose and promise in mind.
Real women can eat vegetables too.
You can take vegetarians to barbecues.
Trust me, we're good at co-existing,
Are you?

Plant your voice on the anvil.  I write my name
in rust just as you in soot.  And you
in skin.  Riveted by flint.  Coated by grit.  
Send me on my way.

What I will find in the foundry
is ****.  The husk of some steam shovel
lurching over asphalt.  Rip my organs
from the mouth and bore into me.

Bellows amid sparks.  Flame in columns.    
There was a puddle I would stand
in to quicken the surge.  Groping
wholeness in each crescent flare.

My family alone far away.  Valley Forge
wet with orange.  Tossing crumbs to ducks
from the path.  I would join them.
My hands would split open crab.

We row to the dam’s lip and wait
for sturgeon, rocking.  Pumice and sand.
Beat and grind and reduce me bare.
Tongue fumbling for the tip.

I think she would be proud of me.

The UK General Election has run its course.
A “win” for the Conservative Tories
With most votes and seats
Though they lost their parliamentary Majority,
And can only govern
By doing a deal with the Northern Irish DUP
Who oppose the rights of gays and women
And want to bring back hanging.

Yet Labour too are celebrating a win:
Halving the gap between the Tories and themselves
And winning loads of votes and seats.
OK they finished fifty odd seats behind,
But hey!

And then the Libdems “won” four more seats.
Plus The Greens held Brighton by a merry mile.
The Scottish Nationalists still got thirty five seats,
In spite of Nicola Sturgeon calling for
Another referendum on independence.
Sinn Fein in Northern Ireland got more seats too.
And the Welsh limited their damage by Labour.

“Winners” all, except for UKIP.
That’s politics.
Until the next election.
Which might be fairly soon.

Paul Butters

Look to the moon of August
From any place or time;
Write a little poesy,
Name it in a rhyme.
You can call it Sturgeon,
Red, Green Corn or Grain;
No matter what your outlook,
It still looks the same.
You can call it Dog Days,
Fruit, Dispute or Lightening,
And calling it a Woman's Moon
Gives rise to all that's ripening.

Those cranes have earned

their sack of seed

They pulled these pencil turrets

through a sturgeon curd of feckless wet

to leave them where they lay.



Because of this

i sit indifferent, satchelled

in an unmade bed,

a simple- headed almanac

of beige and sable rhetoric.



My heritage;

an Eton mess

of trampled roman candles

left, by careless midnight masses

that come scratching at my door.

White Oaks display tenuous longevity
Tethered to red dirt , moss populated
living testaments , etched in black decay
like tombstones marking an ending location
What man did fire in anger from this hillside
Fire for daily bread , wracked in hunger , steeped
in the unknown , slighted by his brethren , ill
recompensed , foolhardy leg deep sagebrush
foraging lonely wilderness outposts , a foreign beast
racked with chilblain , feverish at deaths gate
Hickorys cry golden kin in frosted wind , red inquiries
mingled in dark earth decay , vermin infested rot ,
pungent pile reeking recompense , scavenger trolled
dead carpet , crying in fog drenched stupor , collecting
in leaf well , motif sunbeam , signaling the birth of midday
shine neath Maple umbrellas
Beside talking waters , ravenous , diamond temptress , committing Summers deceased corruption to the sea
Mosaic sands , evergreen curiosities , glass creek- boulder
kaleidoscopes , lapping shorelines , mud foaming froth
hiding unknown depth
Laughing , forever cascading artery without mercy
Teeming with pan , bream , perch and sturgeon
Alligator shell scavenger , water moccasin , consumption
Pine labyrinths , sunless Fern gardens , Snake , Dew , Red berry
briarpatch mazes , rolling countryside without fence , encaged in Crescent Moon , lantern fly obscurity with voracious Aedes vampires , humid , blistering night without end* ...

Jungle bells are ringing out
across the nation, Boris is to
play Santa Claws this year,
so, reinforce your stockings.

Corbyn is going to be Scrooge
in The Christmas Carol, hoping
to cook Johnson's goose which
he will share with the hungry.

Arlene Foster will be filling
the empty pies with minced
words which are to be served in
Bowler Hats avec blue berries.

Sturgeon is going to Hog as
Many votes as possible while
the rest are gorging to the Pogues
Fairytale of New York & London.

The Lib-Dems have an anthem
by Jo Swine Song about spit
roasting a Pig in the stocks
outside Downing St. Syndrome.

The Greens are looking for this
years largest Cucumber which
they have decided to stuff. They
have declined to say where.

Cymru Plaid's have decided to
make woollen scarves for the
homeless Corgi's after the Queen
is evicted from Buckingham Palace.

Nigh Gel Farage is going to
lubricate a Tusk and shove it up
Barnier's (( in the presence of
Jean Claude Coke Nose Junkier.

Salad, tossed face embossed got no floss chewin at all cost
Laying in the moss you know the forest but I ain’t no Gump
Or Trump tryin to destroy us filled with joyous boisterousness
Enjoy coitus with a moist ***** tied your *** to my truck hitch
Drag ya through the ditch, aint actin rich once I shot a snitch
Squealing like a stuck pig hooked him with a sturgeon rig
Took him to the reservation dig left him pining like a twig
We all danced a jig around the camp fire pulled out some plyers
Did my impression of Michael Meyers I started stabbing fools
With shiny dental tools took them all to school, then proceeded to break the rules
Splashed their face with jewels that others refer to as stool
Slapped them with my ****, until they were covered in it
Peanuts gleaming in the night, asked them if they wanted to fight
Told my little dog to bite, lit out til I was outta site
Alright –

Trump missed a step today. It's sad to see
such gaffs in a political career.
The morn dawned clear and bright. Humidity
had moved out overnight. (Precisely here
was Donald's chance.) Sweet-tweeting sparrows trilled,
bees buzzed industriously. As Nature wept
for joy dew sparkled, zephyrs fresh and mild
wafted the greenery. A sturgeon leaped.

Had Don been up, inspired he could have said:
"Were I your president I'd get my way,
o people of America, instead
of Tuesday I'd declare this Saturday!"
Then even a hard-nosed realist as myself
might vote for such a winning furry elf!


....naahhh  :)

18th August
-Before the autumn arrives

Fourteen more sunsets to witness
Fourteen more endings to caress
I'll watch sturgeon for the last time
Gonna get 'ma-aslama' from August very soon
'Fall' will be evoked for what the September strives
Gonna have an eye-catch since it's a 'corn moon'
Summer will kiss you for the last time
Before the Autumn arrives!

Have to suffer a few more starks
Season leaving autumnal marks
My cozy lights ambering my darks...
Final Equinox in the doorway is driving
These elm splinters are substantiating
That the autumn is arriving!!

My darkened panes
reminiscing autumn rains
Rains on the crisp dead leaves
Triggering seasonal pains
'Ash' will perform his last ballet
Before he dives;
'Walnuts' will play their nonchalant rhythms
Before he arrives!!!

Leaves and the branches parting ways
Trees bearing insane death
Four are over already in these verses
Now the days are ten left! ~vairagya

the sturgeon
not to swim.
You wouldn’t him –
Your chances be slim

You wouldn’t ask
the sun
not to shine.
For if it would rain
I’m sure you would whine.

You wouldn’t ask
the Robin
not to sing.
Who would dare –
such a thing!

You wouldn’t ask
the eagle
not to fly.
Well if you wouldn’t him
Why would you I?

Silver Sturgeon moon
Reprieve from cruel summer sun
Cools crowded night—life...

Balmoral will be returned and
Faslane, besides, it will give
the Border Collies a purpose.

Imagine, our own minister of
fisheries, could be Salmond,
Sturgeon wouldn’t mind that.

There’s no Duke, Edinburgh
Castle is ours, we’re sending
on the rag pole with your staff.

Re the flag, we were needin'
our [X] back, Jack, and you'll
notice, we’ve tookin' the box.

Exit is Brexit
Out is Brout
Give a man a fish
It has to be a Trout.

But if its on a Friday
The day you voted Leave
And you are a Catholic
Vote for Mogg but not for Grieve.

Up in Scotland they have a choice
Sturgeon roe or there is Salmon
The Welsh prefer their Oysters
From the mountains of Aran Benllyn

Across the water in County Down
Where those bowlers make them frown
Arlene Foster and her DUPPY's
Use Bluefish software for the Crown.