Flying high with The Crazymad Writer
Is it a bird?
Or is it a plane?
No, it’s The Crazymad Writer!!!
Some people might think that I am so cracked,
Two sheets to the wind, and that is a fact.
But I say it is they who are lacking of sorts,
Afraid to speak up, to convey their true thoughts.
To speak and to mean just what we might say,
Is honesty so lacking in the world of today.
If people joined in with this wonderful cause,
They would value and welcome and give it applause.
But people are strange; so nice to the face,
Then turning their back they fall down in disgrace,
Lying and cheating with no thought of the pain,
That neglecting truth causes, and who is to blame.
They just follow the herd, they follow the crowd,
Ticking off those who stand alone from the crowd,
Laughing at those two sheets in the wind,
Oblivious to the fact that they are happier than them.
If more people were ‘two sheets to the wind’,
More would be happier and less would have sinned.
Are you normal?
Do you want to be,
A faceless person in a heaving sea,
With no aims, ambitions, dreams or goals,
Just happily plodding along that road?
Are you slowly dying?
Don’t you feel the magic of each new day,
The sounds of laughter as children play,
The warmth of the sun on your back, so good,
The song of birds, the smell of wood?
Are you passing time?
Don’t you wonder at the sky, so blue,
The start and end so vague to you?
I hear you say, I am happy, still,
So too is an ant that has no will.
Wake up, wake up!
It’s not too late,
There still is time to change your fate,
Renounce the normal, do something MAD,
Shock them all create a fad.
Be yourself, alive with goals,
With dreams and wonders still untold,
Exult life in your own distinctive way,
It’s yours alone; you must have your say,
Lest you slip into oblivion (without a trace).
My bones are cold,
I found it hard to sleep last night,
My bones are old,
I’ll need more rest tonight.
If the weather turned warmer, and very soon,
I might just make it through till June,
I feel as though my end is neigh,
If it rains any more I will certainly cry.
Oh, where is the sun, has it forever gone?
Oh, where is the sun, is it on the run?
From me and you and them as well?
Are we just living in our own hell?
I need the light I crave the sun,
There must be more to life than run, run, run,
Trying to escape the hell of the poverty trap,
There must be more! Oh where is the map?
I must find the map!
God in his wisdom made the fly
Then He forgot to tell us why.
By Ogden Nash
Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
I’m not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.
By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever’s hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!
Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.
Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne’er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.
A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare’s plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
‘In search of lettuce’
Bill and Ben search the garden for some lettuce for Slowcoach, and Thistle tricks them.
The Clangers are peacefully building a house. We hear a whistling sound and down comes something. The Clangers run for cover. The thing is a terrestrial space-probe vehicle with large initials on it. It is a tracked vehicle with appendages. The Clangers watch it begin its investigations. It probes about, beeping and buzzing to itself. It finds a piece of local rock and produces a sort of digging device. It digs up the rock and appears to eat it. This shocks Mr. Clanger who goes out to speak to it. The space-probe does not register his existence and pushes him rudely out of the way. Mr. Clanger pushes back. Then the vehicle stops, backs away and produces a turret with an optical instrument on it and proceeds to examine Mr. Clanger with it. It approaches him and Mr. Clanger, thinking it wishes to shake hands, grasps the instrument which comes off in his hand. The space-probe goes into emergency action. Mr. Clanger tries to put back the instrument but the vehicle takes no notice. It ignites its rockets. It blasts off.
Monday comes and it’s back to work,
And oh I feel so blue.
Why can’t it be Friday at five,
Oh I wish that it were true.
Tuesday comes and I’m so tired,
I think that I’m depressed.
Oh well I’ll make it some how,
At least I’ll do my best.
Wednesday comes and I see some light,
After Wednesday it’s a downhill grade.
Only two more days till Friday,
And then I’ll have it made.
Thursday comes it’s getting close,
I feel better yes I do.
Tomorrow will be Friday,
Oh Friday I love you.
Thank God it’s Friday,
Only eight more hours to go.
Thank God it’s Friday,
I believe that clock is slow.
Thank God its five o’clock Friday,
Oh joy, oh bliss divine.
No more work for two whole day’s,
It’s such a wonderful time.