Valleys of Veges and Fountains of Fruit
Posted: Sat Jul 09, 2011 12:44 pm
I'm not sure if I should pollute the airwaves in this way, but here goes. One of the writing exercises I've been employing lately is to write 'stream-of-consciousness' nonsense verse, and see where it takes me. Inevitably, the human mind being what it is, the nonsense starts to give way to sense in one form or another.
Valleys of Veges and Fountains of Fruit
© Stephen Whiteside 2011
With a snicketty noo and a bumpetty bee,
And a humpetty hee and a randapy poo,
With a flandapy boo and a scrumpetty wot,
And a trumpetty shot and a piddledy pee;
Neerim came chasing him, over the meadows,
Over the pastures and over the style,
With a hicketty hee and a hoppety boobooloo,
Catching him, catching him all the while.
There are answers to questions for those who are seeking,
Answers to questions hid high in the stars.
Answers to questions lie under the oceans.
Astronauts know them, and old salty tars.
Old salty astronauts under the oceans,
Gibbering idiots, mouths full of fish;
Tars in the galaxies, leaving the Milky Way.
Out there you won’t find a rainbow and wish.
No rainbows in space, just things so much stranger;
No pots of gold, no, much richer than that.
Shiver me timbers, and step into danger.
Somebody’s eaten my very best hat!
Eaten my hat. It was made out of spinach.
Filled to the gunwhales with vitamin C.
Filled to the wash-holes. Filled to the evenflaps.
Filled to the piffleys. Filled, can’t you see.
I’ll take you down to the Oppenhauer Gate,
And I’ll show you a sight you have not seen before.
Don’t bother to tell me it’s ebbery pebbery.
Don’t bring your lunch up, and don’t fart or snore.
So this is the way that they spells us in France,
And what did you think of it then?
We’re sailors and astronauts, filled to the gunwhales,
We’re roary and hoary and froary old men.
We’re whibbles and bibbles, We’re Sassafras angels.
We’re squibbles and bubbles and arty old fools.
And you may or may not find us all down at Bunnings,
Choosing our paints and our plants and our tools.
Whistle me ginger. Whistle me teddy.
Bicker and binder and well, fancy that.
I bought me a latte - just turned for a moment.
A snotty-nosed toddler has eaten my hat.
Eaten my hat that was made out of cauliflower.
The tops and the stalks and the green leaves as well.
He’s got his supply of vitamin C,
But what else he’s picked up, you never can tell.
There’s vermin that live in the bowels of the cauliflower;
Insects and buggies amongst all the dirt.
It kept my head dry when the weather was rainy.
I still have the lettuce I wear as a shirt.
Sticky-taped lettuce leaves over my shoulders,
My belly, my chest and my hairy old back;
My arms and my elbows and wrists, right and left,
And a rabbit would think it a jolly fine snack.
Snack for a rabbit. But what of my trousers?
Whistle me timbers, eh, naked white legs?
And boots for me ankles? And cuddly warm mittens?
Down to the market for veges I begs.
Veges to clothe me. Veges to pamper me.
Veges to cover my vitals and all.
Don’t tempt me with apples or prunes or bananas.
It’s veges I want, or else nothing at all.
Nothing at all on these cold frosty mornings?
Would fruity pyjamas pass master, young man?
Fruit for the night-time, and veges by day.
The sun rises slowly. It’s catch as catch can.
Catch me in fruit as the first rays of sun-light
Pass though my window and land on my face;
Slip ‘tween the curtains, and bounce off the mirror,
And spin round the walls and all over the place.
Yes, I am guilty. The first rays of sun-light.
A long line of cherries entwined through my toes.
My veges lie dark and lie cold in the pantry.
I’d better prepare for my sentence, I s’pose.
No, don’t slice the veges. They’ve done nothing wrong.
Take me, if you’re bound to take someone at all.
They’re juicy. They’re fresh. They’re nutritious, delicious.
It isn’t their fault that I fell from their thrall.
And in truth, sir, I didn’t. I still love my veges.
I was getting up soon, sir, to make a full switch,
But I overslept slightly. The sun caught me napping.
To find I am guilty, I think’s a bit rich.
Not my place to argue. My mind of no interest.
I know that. I get it. But what can I lose?
I’m guilty. I know it. My sentence awaits me.
I sit back and wait while you ponder and choose.
Ponder and choose what the punishment is -
Fruit and not veges against my white skin
As the moon slowly sets, and the stars slowly fade,
And the first rays of sunshine come tumbling in.
What laws do you follow? What world have I found here?
You place little stock in destruction or death,
But empires rise, and empires fall
On the smell of one’s armpits, the taste of one’s breath.
If death means so little, then why would you kill me?
Where is the punishment? What is the loss?
Spill me and grill me and mill me and drill me.
Dress me in broccoli. Hey, you’re the boss.
March me through town with a head full of artichokes.
Clothe me in veges until my knee knocks.
Adorn me with pumpkins and eggplants and onions.
Bundle me into the old village stocks;
The old village stocks, not used now for decades,
Held in reserve for a monster like me,
Guilty of crimes not known very widely,
Of placing a cherry where should be a pea;
Placing an onion where should be an orange.
Slipping a spud where an apple should go.
Although I’m a stranger, a drifter, a ranger,
Excuses are useless. I really should know.
I really should know that the day-light is sacred;
The first rays of dawn, or the full flood of noon.
Each room has a camera, the evidence taken,
Sent to the court to convict a wild hoon.
I’m tired of your country, I’m sick of your laws,
Your cut and your thrust and you limp regulations.
A traveller such as myself takes a risk.
Will he land at the best, or the foulest of nations?
Foulest of nations, go on, do your worst.
Padlock my wrist, and my wrist, and my head.
Pound me with iPods and cell phones and laptops
And kindles and desktops until I am dead.
Until I am dead? No, that isn’t your style
For death hath no meaning in this hell of hells.
Until I am...what, then? You see, I’m a traveller.
Your world is a strange one, and nothing quite gels.
Nothing quite gels. I’m alone on a river,
A river of nonsense, where nothing is fixed,
Where all points are rootless, where reason means nothing,
Where virtue and vice are impossibly mixed.
It seems you have finished. My eye-brows are bleeding,
My limbs, they are swollen, my belly is black.
My fingers and toes are a deep shade of purple;
Abrasions and bruises, they litter my back.
It seems you are finished. I find I’m still breathing.
You unlock my wrist and my wrist and my head.
I’ll go find my space-ship. I’ll re-set the compass.
I’ll look to the heavens. For what have I bled?
You valleys of veges, you fruits in great fountains,
You’ve done me no favours. I can’t take the heat.
‘Tween night-time and day-time it’s all too vexatious.
A curse on you both, I am sticking to meat!
And don’t now expect me to climb up my ladder,
To step like an astronaut into my ship.
It isn’t that concrete. I don’t do ovations.
I’ve classier methods to give you the slip.
With a snicketty noo and a bumpetty bee,
And a humpetty hee and a randapy poo,
With a flandapy boo and a scrumpetty wot,
And a trumpetty shot and a piddledy pee;
Say your good-byes. You will never see me!
Valleys of Veges and Fountains of Fruit
© Stephen Whiteside 2011
With a snicketty noo and a bumpetty bee,
And a humpetty hee and a randapy poo,
With a flandapy boo and a scrumpetty wot,
And a trumpetty shot and a piddledy pee;
Neerim came chasing him, over the meadows,
Over the pastures and over the style,
With a hicketty hee and a hoppety boobooloo,
Catching him, catching him all the while.
There are answers to questions for those who are seeking,
Answers to questions hid high in the stars.
Answers to questions lie under the oceans.
Astronauts know them, and old salty tars.
Old salty astronauts under the oceans,
Gibbering idiots, mouths full of fish;
Tars in the galaxies, leaving the Milky Way.
Out there you won’t find a rainbow and wish.
No rainbows in space, just things so much stranger;
No pots of gold, no, much richer than that.
Shiver me timbers, and step into danger.
Somebody’s eaten my very best hat!
Eaten my hat. It was made out of spinach.
Filled to the gunwhales with vitamin C.
Filled to the wash-holes. Filled to the evenflaps.
Filled to the piffleys. Filled, can’t you see.
I’ll take you down to the Oppenhauer Gate,
And I’ll show you a sight you have not seen before.
Don’t bother to tell me it’s ebbery pebbery.
Don’t bring your lunch up, and don’t fart or snore.
So this is the way that they spells us in France,
And what did you think of it then?
We’re sailors and astronauts, filled to the gunwhales,
We’re roary and hoary and froary old men.
We’re whibbles and bibbles, We’re Sassafras angels.
We’re squibbles and bubbles and arty old fools.
And you may or may not find us all down at Bunnings,
Choosing our paints and our plants and our tools.
Whistle me ginger. Whistle me teddy.
Bicker and binder and well, fancy that.
I bought me a latte - just turned for a moment.
A snotty-nosed toddler has eaten my hat.
Eaten my hat that was made out of cauliflower.
The tops and the stalks and the green leaves as well.
He’s got his supply of vitamin C,
But what else he’s picked up, you never can tell.
There’s vermin that live in the bowels of the cauliflower;
Insects and buggies amongst all the dirt.
It kept my head dry when the weather was rainy.
I still have the lettuce I wear as a shirt.
Sticky-taped lettuce leaves over my shoulders,
My belly, my chest and my hairy old back;
My arms and my elbows and wrists, right and left,
And a rabbit would think it a jolly fine snack.
Snack for a rabbit. But what of my trousers?
Whistle me timbers, eh, naked white legs?
And boots for me ankles? And cuddly warm mittens?
Down to the market for veges I begs.
Veges to clothe me. Veges to pamper me.
Veges to cover my vitals and all.
Don’t tempt me with apples or prunes or bananas.
It’s veges I want, or else nothing at all.
Nothing at all on these cold frosty mornings?
Would fruity pyjamas pass master, young man?
Fruit for the night-time, and veges by day.
The sun rises slowly. It’s catch as catch can.
Catch me in fruit as the first rays of sun-light
Pass though my window and land on my face;
Slip ‘tween the curtains, and bounce off the mirror,
And spin round the walls and all over the place.
Yes, I am guilty. The first rays of sun-light.
A long line of cherries entwined through my toes.
My veges lie dark and lie cold in the pantry.
I’d better prepare for my sentence, I s’pose.
No, don’t slice the veges. They’ve done nothing wrong.
Take me, if you’re bound to take someone at all.
They’re juicy. They’re fresh. They’re nutritious, delicious.
It isn’t their fault that I fell from their thrall.
And in truth, sir, I didn’t. I still love my veges.
I was getting up soon, sir, to make a full switch,
But I overslept slightly. The sun caught me napping.
To find I am guilty, I think’s a bit rich.
Not my place to argue. My mind of no interest.
I know that. I get it. But what can I lose?
I’m guilty. I know it. My sentence awaits me.
I sit back and wait while you ponder and choose.
Ponder and choose what the punishment is -
Fruit and not veges against my white skin
As the moon slowly sets, and the stars slowly fade,
And the first rays of sunshine come tumbling in.
What laws do you follow? What world have I found here?
You place little stock in destruction or death,
But empires rise, and empires fall
On the smell of one’s armpits, the taste of one’s breath.
If death means so little, then why would you kill me?
Where is the punishment? What is the loss?
Spill me and grill me and mill me and drill me.
Dress me in broccoli. Hey, you’re the boss.
March me through town with a head full of artichokes.
Clothe me in veges until my knee knocks.
Adorn me with pumpkins and eggplants and onions.
Bundle me into the old village stocks;
The old village stocks, not used now for decades,
Held in reserve for a monster like me,
Guilty of crimes not known very widely,
Of placing a cherry where should be a pea;
Placing an onion where should be an orange.
Slipping a spud where an apple should go.
Although I’m a stranger, a drifter, a ranger,
Excuses are useless. I really should know.
I really should know that the day-light is sacred;
The first rays of dawn, or the full flood of noon.
Each room has a camera, the evidence taken,
Sent to the court to convict a wild hoon.
I’m tired of your country, I’m sick of your laws,
Your cut and your thrust and you limp regulations.
A traveller such as myself takes a risk.
Will he land at the best, or the foulest of nations?
Foulest of nations, go on, do your worst.
Padlock my wrist, and my wrist, and my head.
Pound me with iPods and cell phones and laptops
And kindles and desktops until I am dead.
Until I am dead? No, that isn’t your style
For death hath no meaning in this hell of hells.
Until I am...what, then? You see, I’m a traveller.
Your world is a strange one, and nothing quite gels.
Nothing quite gels. I’m alone on a river,
A river of nonsense, where nothing is fixed,
Where all points are rootless, where reason means nothing,
Where virtue and vice are impossibly mixed.
It seems you have finished. My eye-brows are bleeding,
My limbs, they are swollen, my belly is black.
My fingers and toes are a deep shade of purple;
Abrasions and bruises, they litter my back.
It seems you are finished. I find I’m still breathing.
You unlock my wrist and my wrist and my head.
I’ll go find my space-ship. I’ll re-set the compass.
I’ll look to the heavens. For what have I bled?
You valleys of veges, you fruits in great fountains,
You’ve done me no favours. I can’t take the heat.
‘Tween night-time and day-time it’s all too vexatious.
A curse on you both, I am sticking to meat!
And don’t now expect me to climb up my ladder,
To step like an astronaut into my ship.
It isn’t that concrete. I don’t do ovations.
I’ve classier methods to give you the slip.
With a snicketty noo and a bumpetty bee,
And a humpetty hee and a randapy poo,
With a flandapy boo and a scrumpetty wot,
And a trumpetty shot and a piddledy pee;
Say your good-byes. You will never see me!
.I guess.