Black and blue, so sore, I say,
Castleknock Henry, I saw today,
He did not like it, me visiting him,
Whopped my arse and made it sting.
I tried to calm him, make us friends,
It enraged him more, not make amends,
He spat and scratched and punched me hard,
I retreated fast fighting a rear guard
Nice cat,
Good cat,
Kind cat,
You think.
Bad cat,
Dire cat,
Grim cat,
I think.
What to do,
With this cat,
Treat him nice,
Or punish him,
Kill the cat,
Treat the cat,
Or let him be,
Ignoring him.
Castleknock Henry is a fine cat,
Enjoying his food while getting quite fat,
Off to the garden he sets off in hast,
To find a nice spot to dispose of his waste,
Around and around the garden he goes,
But all that he finds is cobblelock woes,
Oh, why is there nowhere to shit?
He hisses and spits, feeling quite sick,
This garden is not cat-friendly at all,
He snaps as he finally drops his big haul,
What have you done to my garden so grand?
Says Maria, his owner, this is not part of my plan,
A garden that needs no work to put in,
Take that and that you horrible thing!
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 this life in your distinctive way,
It’s yours alone; you must have your say,
Lest you slip into oblivion without a trace…
Gerrard, Sir Gerrard – are you sure that it’s so,
Your title, your label, or are you having a go,
At me, your poor servant, a man dearthly low?
Gerrard, Sir Gerrard, pray tell me, with haste,
How you got it, your title, your rank and your place?
Cos I want it, really want it, so I can lift up my face.
I got it, my title, after years of hard slog,
Writing stories for children; my mind was agog.
I was tired, so tired, when I knelt down before,
The Queen, then she tapped me and I fell to the floor, asleep.
Crazier things have happened to me,
I am the Crazymad Writer, you see,
In the meantime, while you are here,
Take care that you don’t get too near,
My title, my award, for being so fine,
After years in the wilderness now is my time!
Danny Browne had many noses,
It’s the truth, so many poses.
He forgot to breathe, both in and out,
Now he’s dead, the silly lout.
Porridge, porridge, good for your bones,
Bones, bones, good for your bones.
Eat it up; it’ll do you good,
Do you good, good, good, good.
Look at it now; it’s so fine to eat,
It’s so fine and good, it is a treat.
Apples are produce,
Until they drop on your head,
Then they are pondered,
Unless you are dead.
The pale, the cold, and the moony smile
Which the meteor beam of a starless night
Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle,
Ere the dawning of morn’s undoubted light,
Is the flame of life so fickle and wan
That flits round our steps till their strength is gone.
O man! hold thee on in courage of soul
Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way,
And the billows of cloud that around thee roll
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day,
Where Hell and Heaven shall leave thee free
To the universe of destiny.
This world is the nurse of all we know,
This world is the mother of all we feel,
And the coming of death is a fearful blow
To a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel;
When all that we know, or feel, or see,
Shall pass like an unreal mystery.
The secret things of the grave are there,
Where all but this frame must surely be,
Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear
No longer will live to hear or to see
All that is great and all that is strange
In the boundless realm of unending change.
Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death?
Who lifteth the veil of what is to come?
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath
The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb?
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be
With the fears and the love for that which we see?
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
The Crazymad Writer 