Tag: poetry-humor

Thus Spake the Black Dog

If you’re thinking of harming
The Black Dog, it’s said,
He’ll scrunch up yer molluscs
until they’re bright red.

True!
I’ll splosh out yer eyegogs
(oh yes, deary me!)
and spong out yer gutpot
not once, but twice three
– that belly, that pudding
that swings to and fro:
I’ll pound it (confound it!)
then batter it more.
Yer thrips will be snargled,
and if that’s not enough,
I’ll wallop yer long-john
to jellity stuff.
Yeah, Bung-Ho, you dastard,
all that will be done –
when I’ve molished yer fritters
and gritted yer spum!
I’ll zonk out yer gumfangs
and strew them around
so’s your friends will grow tired
of searching the ground
where they fell, with yer lobboes
when I bludgeoned them off
to a fine trituration
(at which I would scoff).
And how will you walk
when yer pegs are all broke?
And talk with yer gnashers
all shoved down yer throat?
You’d be crawling and bawling
along a hard road;
I’d be munching and crunching
yer bum as you go.
Why, I’ll sever yer gizzard
and hammer it flat
as a Shrove Tuesday pancake.
Analyse that!
Then I’ll bangcrash yer brainclods
till they run down yer nose
after spanking yer grommets
(and then, I suppose
I’ll prise off yer eyepads
till they fall to the floor
and kick yer baloneys
straight out of the door).
I’ll mallet yer bonce
– you protest? All in vain! –
so far down yer rib-cage
you’ll think you’re in jail.
Then I’ll tear off yer skin-coat
so fast – in a mound,
with a clatter them ribs
will collapse to the ground.
Do I rip out yer giblets
for kicks, Sonny Jim?
And send them Express Mail
to Dear Leader Kim?
Or mangle yer toenails
and fix them on string?
Why not? Wow, a necklace!
What a nice lot of bling!
I’ll wrench out yer feelers
(I know there are ten)
when I’ve pummeled yer dummock
to jerky, and then
yer peepers I’ll blemish,
and after, I’ll find
yer blinkers, to roll up
like Venetian blinds.
I’ll whack up yer liver
so it jumps from yer mouth,
then woggle yer nostrils
to north, west, and south.
Yer schnoz I will render
a piece of wet meat
that dangles and slithers
all the way to yer feet.
(Do you think I’m a weakling?
You’ll know that you’re wrong
when I bounce yer bazookas
from here to Hong Kong).
Yeah, those big-bagged spudatoes
to me are as naught.
Once inside my incisors
they’re surrounded, and caught
in invincible pincers
just as Clausewitz taught.
Sure, those much-mangled gargoyles …
what a sight to be seen
put on public display
at a dollar-fifteen.
Hoo! Ripe, hairy gwizgogs
between my sharp teeth …
all squashed and dismembered.
Now that would be neat.
And to pluck off yer pimples
and flick ‘em around
like freshly-rolled bogies,
hey? How does that sound?
Yeah – round up yer snottings
and stack ‘em in piles
so that, like Taipei Tower,
you can see them for miles.
Would you like yer lugs frizzled
and tossed to the side,
or nailed to the floorboards?
Just say. I’ll oblige.
And as for yer lorrox,
my fine kickeroo,
I’ll bend it, and twist it,
and snap it in two
(but when you are gasping
and sick from the pain,
I’ll tossle it sideways
and do it again).
And after I’ve razzled
yer chops outside-in,
oh, how I shall gallop
and dance on yer chin!
Yer schlobs will be buckled,
I’m telling you, mun!
(A treatment surpassing
Godzilla the Hun’s).
I’ll grate yer bolundrums
(and if that would seem cruel
I’ll press yer fandoogles
into fossilized fuel).
When yer bannocks are busted,
hanging out on the line
like Saturday’s washing –
won’t that be fine?
And with yer esophagus
tied in a knot,
how will you breathe?
What chance have you got?
Shall I puncture yer windbag?
Indeed, I doo dat.
Jump on yer bunions?
Crunchety-splat?
Nay – I’ll pinion yer sprockets,
peel off yer flanks,
blister yer tonsils
and bite off yer shanks.
(Oh, blow it and blast it!
I forgot to say where
I’ll fling yer big bonker
or deal with yer hair,
or slamdunk yer parsnips,
and what a great treat
to punch your bulloon-o
from now till next week).
I’ll stove in yer gasket
for pleasure, me boy –
donate it to First Grade
as a new toy.
I’ll swat yer balugas,
erase yer spontoon,
bastinado yer trotters
quite soundly, and soon,
oh joy! Joy delirious!
To yank out yer pearls
with a rusty old pincers!
(Now smile at the girls!)
I’ll belt yer banana
full two-hundred miles;
I’ll swing on yer rissoles
in Tarzany style.
Yeah, yank out yer splosher
and make such fine mince
as was never seen BC
or any time since.
Watch out for yer danglers,
you slobbo, you swine,
or you’ll forfeit them, boyo:
it’s on them things dogs dine.
Shall I zap yer great toodle
or just chomp it? What if
I spit it out sideways
in small, tiny bits?
I’ll stamp on yer bladder,
all mish-mash and splat
like a steam-rollered doughnut.
Take that, then, you… twit.
And I’ll bang-whap yer beanbag
so far out of place…
the sole human organ
traversing deep space.
Yeah – lurid contusions,
crimson-purple and sore
will festoon yer fizziko –
Wanna come back for more?
To straighten yer ribs out
like bicycle spokes
will be merely another
of my little jokes.
These chompers have
petrified Prussians, you know,
as I tore up their ‘pickels’
to hell in the snow,
and prompted Musashi
to play dead on the spot –
while I gobbled his topknot
he stirred not a jot.
Well fugger me windpump
and hose down me sprat!
Kick me now, would you?
We’ll see about that!
No! Avast, ye foul kicker,
yer kicking’s all done,
for I’ll bite off yer leggos
to chew, just for fun.
And for thinking that Two-legs
is better than Four –
I’ll divide up yer tootsies
to even the score.


Kindest regards,
‘Blackie’


This was composed as a friendly, goodnatured boomerang to whatever foul force of the night devised such a disaster as happened to The Black Dog in the previous post It Was Not Yet Quite Dark. It was dreamed up as we walked together of an evening in the Old University grounds under the dark masses of ancient banyans which overarch the walkways there. It was not composed all at once, but over a period of some two weeks; he must have been arriving at it one stanza at a time, and putting it together bit by bit when we got home. He went along quietly, head down, not bothering in the least with all the important scents which must have been lying around, and I could see that he was deep in thought, probably with some new poem on his mind. I act merely as his amanuensis. Well, Blackie was an exceptionally talented fellow – literary critic, Latin scholar, and rugby international (once had a trial with the NZ XV). All this has been mentioned in some detail in the notes accompanying items already published in The Igam-Ogam Mabinogion; I can’t quite remember where – something tells me that it might have been in the ‘Manifestations of the Muse’ or more likely the ‘Dialogues Without Words’ series’, perhaps the one titled The Crossing. I can’t search now, but anyone interested enough will be able to locate it. On the other hand, it must be kept in mind that the above piece is rife throughout with doggy descriptions of devouring revenge such as only satisfy the species, and of a sort we might find hard to digest. They are herewith offered – straight from the ‘horse’s’ mouth so to speak – as an example of unfleshed, raw-to-the-bone canine wisdom. However, there is need for an apology, for in a quick scan-through I see now that his choice of language in the poem is not what I would expect. Some of it is, in fact, a trifle on the vulgar side. But it’s his. So what can I do! He’s really gone too far – ‘bum’ is what he said in one part – ‘bum’! Honestly, that is too much. What will the ladies think? I’m going to have to take him quietly to the side and lecture him sternly.

Talking of dogs, I was re-reading, the other night, Dunsany’s 1936 My Talks with Dean Spanley, a charmingly amusing story about an ecclesiastic gentleman subject to reflections on his former life as a dog, and one which glories in typical Dunsany humour. In case he’s new to you, Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett (1878-1957), 18th Baron Dunsany, was an Anglo-Irish aristocrat; a mediaeval Irish writer said of him ‘There are two great robber barons on the road to Drogheda, Dunsany and Fingall; and if you save yourself from the hands of Fingall, you will assuredly fall into the hands of Dunsany’.It might be of interest to Welsh readers that the castle of Manorbier in west Wales – birthplace of Giraldus Cambrensis and the seat of the de Barri Norman adventurers who took part in the 1169 invasion of Ireland – belongs to and has been refurbished by the present Dunsanys, and where you can now stay as a paying guest. Lord Dunsany, I’ve heard, never edited anything he wrote; with such a rich, undulating style as his, I wonder at that. He is most well known for his heroic fantasy novels and short stories. No-one should miss The King of Elfland’s Daughter. From my own observations, he certainly seems to have had a shrewd recognition of what it is to be Irish. And if his telling of My Talks with Dean Spanley wasn’t witty and inventive enough, in 2008 a splendid film adaptation was made, introducing a completely new character and giving the original story a novel, perfectly fitting, beautifully-handled twist. Starring Jeremy Northam, Sam Neill (as the Dean), Bryan Brown and Peter O’Toole, this is an unusual, truly heartwarming and uplifting film; if you haven’t watched it – I sincerely hope you will! It would make ideal family Christmas viewing.