House

A comission by Lady La of Lobelia Lane

House
By Lord Bynron

I live in a house
It laughs in the face of rain
But trembles in wind

Wedding in Jesus' days

Our tale begins 2 k years ago
At a wedding in Caanern with wine running low
The sum of the guests is more than expected
So to nip to the offy one man is elected.
The short straw is drawn by a white Galilean
Who grumbled moreosely `What's wrong with the tea urn?`
But the crowd had decided over dinner alfresco
That the one they call Christ should pop off to Tesco.

So the Son of Man (against His best wishes)
Stood up from His meal of bread and fishes
He asks what they want as they munch on their haddocks
And the crowd all cry back `WE WANT BEER-ABBOTTS!`.

Alas at this time in the Land of Zion
Carpentry work was bad to rely on
As trees were scarce in the hot desert land
(it seems even cedards don't like the sand)
So Jesus' pockets are running quite light
But the crowd wants booze to sustain them tonight.

A wry smile forms on the Son of God's face
As He develops a plan to get drunk this place.
A plan so cunning e'en a fox would admit:
That as cunning goes - this cuns every bit!


He creeps to the servants like the fox in His mind
And skulks behind a man chopping lime
Onward He tiptoes to the watery jars
And then stoops low, like a man behind bars.
When the coast is clear he lays on His hand
And mutturs some words drowned out by the band.

The jars start to shudder as the magic takes place
And God's work is done in amazing grace
A brief shining light blinks in the scene
and a tinkling of bells so smooth and serene.
It's a pity more people can't see the miracle
and proove Jesus' powers by virtue empirical.
Four jiffies later the act's almost complete
We have jars of red water by the Messiah's feet
and He prays `Father, there's one last thing I wish...`
then hearing his prayer, the Spirit swoops in and makes the wine Irish.

Proud of this feat, the King of Kings grins
And says to a waiter `who needs Oddbins?`
Confused by Jesus' question rhetorical
The waiter looks blank and asks `was that metaphorical?`
`my child...` the happy Rabbi begins
`Soon I will have forgiven your sins`
The blank look has gone from the waiter's face
He just now looks awkward and lacking grace.

So the waiter stands there like a field half harvested
his attention arrested
intellectually bested
his faith contested
forgivness suggested.

The teacher is happy that the servant was thinking
and observed the thought process with attention unblinking
And knowing he was on to a good thing
he rushed the stage while the band were playing
and grabbing the microphone from the lead singer
he let the awkward silence linger
until it turned to fearful revererie
And focus was on Him from every.

After a while His voice began
``I am He - the Galileen man
who has come to do many great works and deeds
like heal the sick and plant spiritual seeds
in the hearts of the needy who hear my voice
and put my spirit in them and them rejoice
To spread peace and loving to all mankind
and show the way to those who are blind.
To destroy the temple but in good ways
and build it up again in three days
to challenge the authority of the rular's rule
and take Jerusalem from atop a mule
I'll build my church upon the rock
and unto it all men will flock
for countless centuries from this day forwards
I shall be known as the Lord of Lords!!!!
Host of hosts and Lion of Judah
Maybe smaller than the beatles but bigger than Buddah.
I shall be known as the Prince of Peace
The boss, indeed, of the Great High Priest
Other names include Bread of Life,
Alpha and Omega, Man of the Tithe.
Light of the World, Redeemer,
Lamb of God, Great Healer...

`` And I know, I know it's the Cowen's special day
and you didn't bank on me taking away
the attention and focus of your matrimony
but you must understand the importance of me
so to underline my importance divine
I invite you, friends, to drink of this wine!``

Philly Philamonic Hip-Hop

Dis is da broken

spoken word intro.

Said over a solid

grungy steady

east coast beat.


Ugh! Ugh!


Den da verse begin:


A live in da ghetto

A drink some amaretto

A sometime play da cello

In da `Angry Black concerto`


#Dis is da Philly Philamonic hip-hop#


A wants ma music regal

like ma man Vaughn Williams and his seagull

Ma raps are compliant and they're legal

And part-funded by Steven Segal.

'Cuz ma homie Casey Ryback

takes his curtain off it's tie-back

y'all he just like to lie back

'n' listen to ma music on his 8-track

'n' he'll all like ``Yo orchestra Philly

Y'all do to me

More dan B-I-G``

And I'm inclined to agree


#Dis is da Philly Philamonic hip-hop#


Ma rapp'n takes a new direction

dere's crescendoes in da string section

A adds a slight brass injection

And add a woodwind for perfection.

Dis here's hip-hop at anuvva level

and I is its conductin' devil

in ma low-down beats I can see ya revel

but in those heels you shud all be careful

cuz dere's one thing we gots the same:

da corner hussler and soprano dame.

Dat's da safety of your health

Dis is how Fiddy earned his wealth

not in a tax of stealth

but securing items on a shelf.

And the same is true for ma man Puccini

His house was known as `il casa safetini`

and dere you couldn't drink a martini

in a regime like Burnito Mussolini.

So next time y'all wants to take some class A

At a poorly lit evening soiree

remember what da Philly Philamonic has to say

`Keep all o' ya snorting andante`


#Dis is da Philly Philamonic hip-hop#


fades out the outro voiceover


All things is possible in da Philly Philamonic hip-hop

da cream of da classical rap crop

we delivers more dan 1970s TV cop

we gots more sht than a fertalizer shop

and dat, is how we roll. Full stop.

Hamstyr hamstyr burning dull

Hamstyr hamstyr burning dull
on who's brown I often mull
What average hand or eye
Could frame thy mediocrity?

A ball of brown fuzz like
a bear on hunger strike
or a cotton wool ball
but not as small.

No noise of which to speak
eminates from your mouth or beak
you are as mute as a tree
which suits me happily.

For hamstyr has no thing to talk
'xcept a wheel in which he walk
and sometimes sesimee seed
or tap water indeed.

What a waste of stupid time
is this brown hamstyr of mine
i wish my mom would have got me
a plastic dinosaur tamagotchi!

Yarco Yarn 1

You
yeah you!
Hahaha
Come here...
Aaahhhhhhhhhh cummonnnnnnnn! kuM her!!!!!!11!1

Iz ok, man! I'm not drunk!
Well I was drunk hahaha, but not
OOP! slippy hand rail here
am not drunk now

Come here! come on,
come one! cum here!!

hahaaahaaaa

I'm Bem.

Right, yeah, there was like...
this...

fckn SERIUSLY massive guy
in a gay black suit and black tie
he's jst lk all up in ma face
acting like he own dis place
and heez sayin `you...`
and I'z lk `who...?`

he sayin `you cunt tek ur shirt off
so Im lk `U cun fk off`
n den he sez he's da busker
But I'm lk `why shd I trust ya`
n he go's `I'll get 2 da point
`get out of dis joint
`or am gunna appoint
`ma fists 2 ur groin`

Hw GAY is dat?!

So den yeah he pix me up
n I'm lk `dude wussup?!`
n he duntsay nuffin
just keeps pushin n shuvvin
me out dat door jst there
it's lk well unfare!
but I got my pride y'know
ground floor window - in i go
stumble inside the gents
den this othr guy vents
jst cuz he was tekkn a piss
and he recunz i made him miss

so i get back to da bar
n order me a jar
n that bender cumz bk up to me
lk proppa angry
n frows me oput agen
n that's wqen
i saw u and thaught
that i ought
to ask u, yeah

cud u do us a favour and get me shirt from inside?

The day it ended...

A day in the streets of the strip.

a few hours after noon

after the peak of the heat

the soldiers rise from their lunch and back to work

Dozy from the lunchtime sun

and weary from a week's comflict

the half arsed soldier that runs a big gun

picks up a shells to a subtle

sfft, tap

as the heavy metal is picked from concrete.

He loads another. The

sfft, tap

sound recapitulates in the same pitch.

The company is trained in precision

in rhythm

they're there to make their presence known.

And so at half two,

The artilliary layed down a phat

boom-boom-boom-boom

For the next block to hear

Brothers in arms pick up the theme

and the descant RPG's

zoom... zooom

AK rounds ping from armour plating

ting-ting-te-te-t'ting... ting-ting-te-te-t'ting

The  noise crescendoes

The beat stays strong

Maybe the deep rhythmic bombs

are about to syncopate?

But back in line they fall

a steady

BOOM, boom, BOOM, boom

underpins the carnival...

Soldiers poke their heads above the sand bags

A timid jerk of the shoulder from an Arab corporal

watched by the Israelie sniper across the street

in perfect time to the rhythm of the beat

as if the booms themselves are pulling on him

The adhān bellows

And the chorus begins

The Israelie sniper siezes the beat

and body pops out of hiding

doing the side-shuffle to the middle of the street

vulnerable to a hundred sights

emboldened by the music

vulterable only to it, now.

And the BOOM-boom-BOOM-boom persists

The soprano ting-te-t'tings draw the hardest combetant from hiding

The adhān goes on

Helmets come off

Chests are liberated from kevlar

Even the velcro betrays the beat

Scchcchcchcchhhh! Scchcchcchcchhhh! 

Go the straps.

The street is alive and resounding in the rhythm

Two factions of uniform

once designed for distinction

now decorate the street in colour

Green never looked so alive.

Pulsing to one tune

one accord

an army transcending war

serving only the moment

where

Disengaged suiside bombers

click-de-clack, click-de-clack

their detonators like maraccas

their bulky vests mere fireworks

held together with duct tape

as if the idea of celebration itself

were cuddling them

The batallion in the next block need to reload

And the boom-boom-boom-boom stops

And it's like

all the bass is taken out

and all that's left is highs

but the trebble hasn't noticed

and you hear the echo

of the angel ting-ting-t'tings

the Muezzin cries on

as if either feeding on

(or making up for)

the lack of bass

he screams, he sings, he pleads

Aaiiyaaaaiiyaaaiyaaaa..

And it feels like all of Gaza responds

And in that moment

The whole town is his mosque

The city a synagogue

And neither either

Favours or embitters the citizens

But ask only that they

Eat and drink from the same beat.

He reaches his last cadence

the new type of suspense in the air

builds up

and is immediately appeased

when the resounding

reverberating

bone shaking

BOOM-boom-BOOM-boom

re-joins the scene!

And the assembled cheer

as if their world depended on the beat

and if just for a tiny moment

If only for that minuscule window of time

the idea crosses their mind

that the heartbeat binding them together at that moment,

is stronger than the discourse that ever drove them apart.

Application For the Position of Poet Lauriet

Dear Your Majesty

On the Guradian's pages I did read
A lauriet of poems that you're in need
For after the great 10 year commotion
We see the demise of Andy Motion

A man who in all but word and rhyme
Was a poet renowned in his time
And this in itself is an accolade
But not the fact that he never stayed:

To iambic pentameter emmerse the nation
And justify the loquacious station
of poet lauriet that was strangely mute
Of an ex-royal member and a Parisian pursuit.

The time has come, or so say the wise,
That the man of Motion we'd eulogise
His empty anthologies and brimming inkwell
Betray the deficit of creative braincell.

So be gone the lazy and stir him to quit!
For the time has come for iBen to sit
At the seat of the bard with pail in hand
Milking his juicy orthography gland

And succling Britannia with nurturing milk
He scribes of Britain and things of that ilk
Commander in Chied of the quil
He writes with passion, with insight and skill.
Observe, if you will...

He lays back and thinks of England
And a part of him starts a'tinglun'
Thoughts will come when they're on top
He screams their name and won't stop
Until they come no more
And they are quite sore
Then poem and bloke
Repose and smoke
And giddily smile
And lay a whilie
And eventually ask each other
`Fancy another?`

See, this is the poet this country needs
One that writes with conviction and bleeds
the transcendentals that flow invtraveinous
From Queens and bankers to fast food cleaners

So what do you say, Mrs Windsor:
Shall we settle Motion's fat-wah?
Let the venal iBen be your artisan
For the generation post-Diann'.