Author: Mike Crowl

A MISS rolled along the street, decidedly waxy,
LURCHed into a nearby bloke, gave him a
SAUCY grin, and greeted him all
SHOWY.  He gently smiled, sent her home in a taxi.

The
TITHE the unnoticeable (except by Christ) and near penniless
WIDOW quietly dropped in the treasury box, was remarked on.
The
RUMBA the rich people made of their offering was remarked on also: CEDARs stand tall and fall heavily; the lily’s beauty outshines Solomon.  

APPLY here, says the notice. I’ve already been
CLUED up to what’s ahead: the stench of
MAGMA will pour forth from the interviewer’s mouth.
STRAW man that he is, I determine not to quake.    

BILGE, I say, not even knowing what a bilge is;
GLOAT, thinking this is something a goat does;
LEAPT, which in my mind should be leaped;
PLEAT, what a lamb does, or maybe I’ll do in court.

I’ve
BEGUN to engrave the full symphonic score, guzzling
BRINE that should – but doesn’t – taste like wine.
Soon the screen is littered with notes like dancing daisies in a FIELD Or seventy teams simultaneously playing cricket on a single PITCH.

WEIRD – I sink into my bath, and to my
AMAZEment discover displacement.
BINGO! I cry (the English equivalent of Eureka),
MUMMY, I shout. ‘Go get some clothes on,’ she says.       

Taxing was her big day as a BRIDE: her
In-laws worked to LOWER the already
Lowered tone by REVELling in booze,
Drugs and coarse-tongued Talk – Idle Loafers Defiling the
Event.

AuGUSTO, on his fiercesome steed, led the
HORDE to break the long-held siege. The
LOSER, Augusto proved to be (shot by an arrow);
PRONE he lies, the arrow clean between his eyes.

FRIAR Tuck, shortly
SHORN, and portly –
THREE times a day drank his fill of mead:
‘UNTIE me, Lord, from my grip on greed.’              

[Getting a bit lonely in here – where is everybody?]

aBUSED and accused frequently by his bigger brother, my
CURLY-headed younger son begged me to be
JUROR in his case against his mother, his brother and the
PASTA. Did I mention that his sweet-natured mother can be
RABID in her anger when injustice occurs?
SAPPY she ain’t. For me, when it comes to arguments, I’m
UNFIT for anything but the gentlest disagreement.
VYING and jockeying for pole position does not become me.

[Running behind – considerably. A vain attempt to catch up.]