Author: Mike Crowl

Okay, mate, I’ve fixed the MOTOR –
there, on that shelf, I found some old EPOXY.
[grins] Wish it was as easy to fix the HEART
and make that ancient ticker GODLY.       

PARRY (Hubert, that is) was a 19^th century top composer of
CHOIR music. Whether he frowned upon the use of
TUBAL instruments – the serpent and nagphani come to mind – we don’t know; his
PRIORity was the voice, solo or in harmony.

ADMIN wants you to try out this
BRAND of soap for a week; their
FAITH in Advertising, who prefer dry to
MOIST toiletries, has gone downhill rapidly.

The
TRIAD in the pop song from my childhood, which at best must be called a
DITTY, is a constant, the other chords pulled back to it repeatedly, like me to
SUGAR in my overall diet. A few weeks dry and I fall off the wagon. FIBRE I eat aplenty, but sugar is an earworm of a ditty with an irritating triad.

READY reckoners no longer required; calculators reign.
BELOW the belt, say the reckoners, feeling the pain. More
HASTE less speed, claim the reckoners, shoved out the door. ‘REVUE’s on, let’s go,’ they say, ‘since we’re no longer loved.’    

Being the middle NOBLE in a family of
five, the SCRAP at the centre of the litter, it’s
difficult to WRING a decent living from the
leftovers; not even a THIRD, barely a fifth.  

I
ABHOR to see something that I know is a
BOTCH, poorly-made, carelessly thought, a
GLINT insufficient in the creator’s eye. The
BISON, still extant, stands perfect, as he ought.

I have yet to figure out how to DEBUG
a hissing, snarling, glass-eyed COBRA.
The one I found in a discarded bin-LINER
reared, and said, I will give you all the kingdoms of the world if you will KNEEL before me.

[No snakes in New Zealand, thank God, and may that never change]

STUFF my hands deeper in my pockets – it’s my
DEBUT running the gauntlet of a Kolkata street. The
FORCE of beggars and banshee boys, each demanding a
RUPEE, is too much; I speed through the stifling heat.        

ODDLY, I spent my social life ignoring women. I’d
AVOID all those who ventured near me. A bear in a cave, I’d
GRUNT and not converse, eyes cast down, fear in me. I’m
UNWED, surprise, surprise, but still I long for one to hear me.