Tuesday, 27 March 2012

Night Sky Noir

It took eighty years to track him down,
That dirty, lying skunk.
Threatening Neptune ensured he got found.
The erratic orbit proved he was drunk.

He was pretty tough, for a little guy
And as hard as rock and ice.
“Why'd yer do it?” The inspector cried.
“Don't cha know that fraud ain't nice?”

Pluto sucked a cigarette,
His fedora low on his brow,
“Don't say anything you might regret!”
“I got friends in high places now.”

He'd been fooling all astronomers
Since the thirties with his guise.
A planetary imposter, a saboteur,
But the (Solar) system caught up with his lies.

It was Chiron and Eris who ratted him out,
That pair of Kuiper Belt sneaks!
The fraudster was guilty, of that there's no doubt.
A case like this could go on weeks!

But the trial collapsed and the jury was hung
And Pluto was left to go free.
Seemed he'd called in a favour from Mars and the Sun,
Got off on a technicality.

I refused relocation and now, late at night,
Though I know I don't have any proof,
I can hear the eight planets all whispering spite
Six inches from the top of my roof.

Saturday, 24 March 2012

Dr Frankenstein Buys the Farm

They say there's something quite strange
down there on the range
and the paddocks of Hallowe'en Farm.
They say the farmer constructs
monsters out of dead ducks.
(I once saw a pig with three arms.)
The creatures he makes
are inhuman mistakes;
perversions of nature and science.
They say he has a device
that brings dead things to life.
The Devil's unholiest kitchen appliance.
I confess that I shuddered
when I saw grafted udders
on the backs of a swan and a bee.
The eight-legged mouse
made me sick in mouth.
It's an image I wish I could un-see.
They say he makes these weird creatures –
with unusual features –
to satisfy a bizarre carnal lust.
But an elephant trunk
on the face of skunk
nearly caused my eye balls to combust.
He has a herd of Roe Deer
with no eyes and no ears,
Fellow farmers view him with such scorn.
He bred a duck and an otter –
that sick, sexual nutter!
And that's how the platypus was born.

Tuesday, 20 March 2012

The B Stands for Beatrice

If the corpse could talk,
Here's what it would say:
It was Fletcher what done it!
Quick! Lock her away!
Don't you find it odd
How she solves each case
Before the police and
At break-neck pace?
As though she knows
How the death was performed...
She really can't be innocent,
She's just too well-informed.
Once, I was like you,
the truth, I too, forsook.
But then she stove my head in
With her latest hardback book.
Never put your trust in her!
She'll only kill and maim,
And it takes just forty minutes (plus adverts)
For her to shift the blame!
The authorities suspect her
But there's nothing they can do!
It's only circumstantial!
They haven't got a clue!
Spend some time alone with her,
You'll come back on a stretcher.
Never put your trust in her!
That demon: JB Fletcher!