A Hoopla Inside the Chicken Coup, La

my what a lot of hoopla inside the chicken coup, La: 
foxes in amongst the crew create a bubbling feather stew; 
dip in, dip out, they take and flout, shake it all around, about; 
then turn tails, away to flay, before returning later on today.

never strengthening the wires, had led to these actions most dire:
now a perimeter with laser guns is forming in my mind, my hon’,
or something that is not impossible, outside the realms of dreamossible:
a sensible straightforward plan, to ensure fox is beaten by man.

but simple plans are not my forte, I like to roast slowly not saute,
and so I schemed a complex scheme, to boil them down with steam,
not literally, you understand, though on the other hand,
one large wide boiling moat would my aim neatly float.

instead I turned to trench warfare, from fox holes I would stare,
and wait for our foxy foe, to unleash on him much woe,
whilst hidden underneath the grass, ready to rise and bite his arse,
so as to put them off my birdies, via a manner most sternly:

I set up rope and snap traps, deep holes hidden by flaps,
that I would trigger, before letting off a snigger;
there was an electric fence, the ability to make fog most dense,
spoiling their vision and sending them into pots for missen.

or so I had hoped, and so the foxes doped
me, made me think, tricked me with sly winks,
so that I thought my fight had been well fought
but through that awful mist, on me they sorely pissed.

and so I tasted the meats of complete and utter defeat,
totally outboxed by the fleet footed fox.
and thus the hoopla carried on, and i tried to tarry on
but, alas, to no avail, my chickens i have failed.

Tweet Repeat 83

I buttonholed the bastard, as soon as I was plastered, 
I took him down a peg or two, shook him as if clearing a flue,

I told him every annoying trait, laid it out like bread on grate, 
and toasted him until well charred, roasted him in thick, thick lard,

only to find the next day, what I thought was genius in every way, 
was indecipherable to the extreme,
unconnectable to any language, so that all to him I seemed, 
was a dense uncooked hot dog sausage.

Tweet Repeat 82

Building the fire one nubbling at a time, 
Pass the coffins round, make up a rhyme. 

Real silver tinsel, important timely meetings, 
Festive number ones, always too fleeting. 


Journeying through Christmas's of different eras, 
Never helps the holiday get any nearer. 

Still, nearly now it is time, 
Why not help pass the hours 
with a glass of mulled wine!

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Note: In one way or another this came from a page on the BBC History Magazine's Website - I think one of their weekly quizzes...

You always find me when I least expect you (2)

You always find me when I least expect you,
When I’m lost or lonely I’ll turn to find you there
You always find me when I least expect you,
When reading, walking, even combing my hair.

So frequently I’ve no clue where to go,
How to develop, the way to carry on, 
Until you appear unexpectedly and so
I become most able indeed to tarry on.

Or when I have no ideas, no way to start
Treading mental water, or just pacing,
You hit the bullseye with a single dart
And your ideas I’m soon to be tracing.

Though it’s never when I’m working at my desk,
And never when I’ve a notepad in hand,
My dear, my love I must confess,
You’re always welcome whene’er you land.

I don’t know if you are just in my head
(If not I should be co-authoring you)
Without you my career’d surely be dead
Thank God
You always find me when I least expect you.

You always find me when I least expect you

It happened to Dewey while riding a horse,
It often happens on journeys of course of course.
To Heisenberg at midnight in the park,
He found light where it was quite quite dark.

To Kekule it came to him in a dream,
That showed him the make-up of Benzene.
While Einstein, bored in the patent offices,
Plucked relativity from inside his cortices.

Philo Farnsworth saw in plough-made incisions
A way to transmit pictures for electronic vision.
And Darwin, from reading Malthus on population,
Found his way, following years of notation.

Loaded with information as clouds with rain,
Made discoveries formulate in their brains.
But only when at rest, only when unforced,
Were these thoughts from soup divorced.

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Note: Written following a lecture on Information and Creativity (where I got most of these examples - the rest came from this article) and with this song mind a bit too.

Tweet Repeat 81

His constant attempts to schmooze made me want to wooze; he could never amuse even a room full of fools.

Now that I’m sere

Now that I’m sere,

Now that I’m here, Dried up, old, Sheltered from the cold In my favourite armchair Under blanket of rough hair. Now I can see it all, I can see a fool In the mirror Who makes me shiver As I look back and remember That fateful December When I let everything go, I just didn’t know That’d be it, Last chance lost in a fit Of decisions too rash, That changed my life in a flash. So Now that I’m here, Now that I’m sere, I can reflect, Continue to regret One mistaken decision That was to be to my life A fatal incision.