The Real Romeo

 

 

 

 

 

‘lt is the East,’ soliloquy by Romeo, act 2, scene 2, ‘Romeo and Juliet’

‘But soft!’ Yeah, right! It’s effing cold, not soft,
out now, waiting for dawn and Jooles to wake
then kill the moon because its loitering’s useless;
she’s draped like a fool in sickly pale green.
The sun will always rise and we need heat
down here, but there goes Jooles, with stars that might
replace her eyeballs though they’d lengthen night.
(Who penned this illogical tripe?) As for shining
cheeks out-brightening stars so that birds
would hail them as the morning light, no hope
of that, and if she leans her cheek on her hand,
what’s that supposed to signify? She’s never
mentioned me once, so I’m done with freezing here,
am off to nosh and suck up hot spiced beer.
 

Nonsense 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stumie lon I wakled kwin
the laft atwoop stend lupped wi’ starn,
but allys I bakuckled swin
the plunk it pockled in the farn.

Kwae wrid I dounkle in the plunk
kwin tot es brarn n’ shuft biyheft?
I blam the plinks n’ plock the frunk,
ni muir ta wakle frin ootheft.

A translation - of sorts:

The summer long I walked when
the sky above stood full of sun,
but always I made backtracks if
the rain it puddled in the morn.

Why would I paddle in the rain
when all is warm and safe indoors?
I slam the windows, poke the fire,
no more to walk far out of doors.

End Game

 

 

 

 

 

Attention!
Revision!

Some tension?
Prevention.

Retension?
Distension!

Extension?
Dissention.

Pretension?
Detention.

Convention?
Contention.

Ascension?
Suspension.

Sans vision.
Invention!

Fuck! Gimme
my pension.

Failed

 

 

Anac’luthon’s nowt but pain
my knee’s all achery just now
it’s enough to drive you sane.
The cure is tea. I make it how

my mother did - there I lie;
I never teapot it and sleep
but mug a bag miss the high
it’s time for up I need to steep.

Titania Corleone

 

 

 

 

 

Alack! Alas!
Here’s Bottom’s arse
and I wish his head
weren’t in my bed.

Noble Rot

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You never pass it by without a bite,
no matter what its origin or date,
if offered by a lusty lass who might
‘ve stuck the cube on twiddle-sticks as bait
to reel you in, with others of your ilk,
to buy a wedge from this un-super mart.
It makes a mint from selling mouldy milk,
as you well know. You reckon you’re too smart
to fall for that old trick, won’t pass your card
so profits upward tick where milk has had
its life skimmed out, thinking you’re wholly hard.
You won’t, you say, follow the latest fad.
       I watch you drop four cream buns in the cart
       and know that what you’ve said’s a load of clart.