She stalks her foe on silent, night-black paws,
Eyes wide and black to catch each hint of light;
Alert ears, focused whiskers, sharpened claws;
Still. Waiting for her summons to the fight.
The slightest blanket-twitch and she is there!
Fierce, fearless, she protects against the beast.
Man’s ancient enemy caught unaware –
Quickly subdued by nimble paw – deceased.
For man’s best friend cannot defeat this foe;
Slow, gullible, he does not know its face.
And man, ever ungrateful, bellows ‘No!’
And in her loyal protection sees disgrace.
Yet faithfully her nightly watch she’ll keep:
Bast’s daughters in their duty do not sleep.
Author: Catherine (Page 4 of 5)
This is a wrong that nothing can amend:
Today, when all of life should lie ahead,
Replete with joys and challenges – instead
We say farewell to sister, daughter, friend
This is a wrong that nothing can redress.
What right have I, a stranger, to complain?
I did not know her. This is not my pain.
And yet her loss has made each of us less.
How dare death waste this life, turn morn to night?
It is a wrong that cannot be undone.
She was courageous, talented and bright –
This should be the beginning, not the end.
Five years she fought, and thought the battle won.
This is a wrong that nothing can amend.
This sonnet was written for a character in Lois McMaster Bujold’s brilliant fantasy novel, Paladin of Souls. It’s a gorgeous, gorgeous book, which I recommend to everyone and anyone.
The Gods’ great curses come to us as gifts
Of bitter hope, in answer to our prayer
Safer by far the silence of despair
Than damnèd sainthood, ruin that uplifts.
Let others try to mend what has been done
Your riddles are too cruel for my belief
They’ve left me empty, riddled with my grief
My cup is shattered. Lost. Leave me alone.
You, Bastard God, I am not yours to use.
The hostages your Mother had are gone:
I am bereft of husband, mother, son
Nothing to force my choice – yet I must choose.
And strangely, now, it seems I’ve found my place:
I’ll serve you well – and curse you to your face.
This was composed under the influence of essays and sleep deprivation, and has no other excuse. You can sing it to Mariah Carey’s song ‘The Hero’, but I’m not sure you should.
There’s an emu.
If you look inside your heart
You don’t have to be afraid
Of ostriches
They are flightless
And they readily dissolve
With the proper lysozymes
They’ll melt away…
And then an emu comes along
With a silly emu song
And, you’ll cast him to the sky
‘Cos he swears that he can fly.
And when the landing goes all wrong
Gather feathers, and be strong
And you’ll finally see the truth
That an emu lied to you…
Did anyone else ever think that ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ was kind of creepy?
To be sung to the tune of ‘Every Breath You Take’, by Sting
Every breath you take
Every move you make
Every toy you break
Every pet you shake
I’ll be watching you
‘Til it’s Christmas day
Every word you say
Every game you play –
From my deer-drawn sleigh
I’ll be watching you
O I can see
From the Christmas Tree
Whether you’ve been good
If you’ve done what you should
I am taking notes
I am writing quotes
I am counting votes
Sorting sheep from goats
I am watching you
Made a list and I’m checking it all twice
When you’re awake, I will know it in a trice
When you’re asleep I know when you close your eyes
That’s how I find out who’s been naughty or nice
Santa Claus is coming back to town…
Oh, don’t you pout
Don’t you scream or shout
Oh you’d best watch out
For you need have no doubt:
Every time you fight
Be it day or night
While the snow is white
From the chimney’s height
I’ll be watching you.
Every move you make
E very toy you break
Every small mistake
Asleep or awake
I’ll be watching you.
Sitting in my sleigh
Until Christmas day
I’ll be watching you
Santa’s watching you
Santa’s watching you
Santa’s watching you
Santa’s watching you….
Spoken: So be good for goodness sake…
Silent night, holy night,
Choir is calm, voices bright
Sops ethereal, tenors with flair
Audible altos and basses to spare
Sing this heavenly piece
Sing this heavenly piece
Silent night, holy night,
Voices break, sounding tight;
A capella was fine at the start
But now the altos have lost all heart
And where has the tenor gone?
Where has the tenor gone?
Silent night, holy night,
One verse left – end’s in sight!
Pastor calls us a heavenly choir
But each verse ends just a little bit higher…
Squeaking, Lord, of thy birth,
Squeaking, Lord, of thy birth,
Silent night, holy night
Almost done, hearts are light!
Basses bellow, but oh, so slow…
No conductor can help us now
At last, it’s over and done!
Finally over and done…
Inspired by this article about a flotilla of plastic bath ducks roaming free through the Arctic Ocean
Who hath seen the Phantom Ducks,
Riding the waves in rubber flocks,
Careering o’er the lonesome main
No bath shall know their squeak again.
But how about the scholar’s plight
Who forever tracks these ducks in flight
Currents to map, for ends unknown
And reason hath it ever flown
Or to vigil strange and long
Does a sort of joy belong…
And one absurdity into another flows
As onward the strange armada goes.
But no, Hark! Quack! Quack Rubber duckies cry,
Quack; Quack, on that sea they fly;
Ah, watching here in awed delight,
Ducks, frogs and beavers ever bright
Journey on across the watery deep
To land in Canada and sleep…
To be sung to the tune of the Universal Soldier, by Donovan
She’s five foot-two and she’s six feet-four
She writes with reason and with rhyme
She filches folk-song tunes, and she writes new melodies
Been a filker for a long, long time…
She’s an Alto, Soprano, a tenor and a bass
A rapper, a jazz singer, out of tune
And she knows she shouldn’t pun
But she knows it’s too much fun
To pun openly or poor puns impugn
And she’s writing ‘bout politics
She’s writing ‘bout cats
She’s writing ‘bout the S.C.A
And she’s writing ‘bout computers
And she’s writing about fruit
And she thinks it doesn’t count as filk this way…
And she’s writing about Bujold
She’s writing ’bout Star Trek
She’s writing about Lackey and Heinlein
And she’s writing about Asimov, she’s writing about Wrede
And she never knows just where to draw the line…
But without her, how would Star Trek’s fleet be banned from Argo’s shores?
Without her, Greensleeves would be left alone
She’s the one who gives her lyrics
For our laughter and our tears
And without her all this filking can’t go on
She’s the universal filker, and she really is to blame
Her ideas come from far away no more
They come from here and there and you and me,
And brothers can’t you see,
This is just what bright, creative minds are for…
This is the putative title song for the ‘historical’ children’s show about Lord Vorthalia The Bold, mentioned in Lois McMaster Bujold’s novel A Civil Campaign, which you should certainly read, because it is wonderful.
To the tune of Pinky and the Brain
Chorus:
Vorthalia the Bold!
Vorthalia the Bold!
Legendary Hero
In days of Old
With brawn as well as brain
He’ll save the day again!
Vorthalya*
Vorthalia the Bold, bold, bold, bold
Bold, bold, bold, bold
Bold.
In isolation time
With villains great or small
When it came to fighting crime
He was the best of all!
CHORUS
He can fight in any strife
With sword or mace or hook
With a cleaver or a knife
He’s better than a cook!
CHORUS
When dimmer heroes fall
His wits will stay the course
For it’s known to one and all
That he’s smarter than his horse!
CHORUS
The ladies love his air
And in charm he has no peers
Though their families may glare
No basil pot he fears!
CHORUS
Politic’ly astute
The Council he could sway
For he knew that in a vote
Lord Midnight would say “Neigh!”.
CHORUS
When in a treas’nous plot
His rivals did conspire
He knew well that one must not
Set the cat on fire!
CHORUS
He’d an educator’s mind
In service to the State
To the Council he defined
The verb ‘defenestrate’
CHORUS
His love seemed doomed to fail
For his wife he had to sue
Though declared both Count and male
She was a countess too!
CHORUS
So watch and listen here
And you’ll hear the story told
Of a hero without peer –
Of Vorthalia the Bold!
Vorthalia the Bold!
Vorthalia the Bold!
His deeds are uncounted,
His virtues untold!
With brawn as well as brain
He’ll save the day again!
Vorthalya*
Vorthalia the Bold, bold, bold, bold
Bold, bold, bold, bold
Bold.
* this spelling to indicate a three-syllable pronunciation of Vorthalia, instead of the usual four.
(inspired by the comment: “Do not meddle in the affairs of filkers, for they are subtle and can make your name scan to Greensleeves”, and the response that Greensleeves wasn’t a song, so much as a musical virus…)
Alas, my love, you did me wrong,
You cast me off discourteously.
Now I will mock you with a song,
Avenge myself with poetry.
Greensleeves will be your bane
Greensleeves will go round your head,
Greensleeves you will hear again,
And your name will scan to greensleeves.
My voice has broken, like my heart,
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?
Now I remain in a world apart
But my song remains to annoy thee.
Greensleeves will be your bane
Greensleeves will go round your head
Greensleeves you will hear again,
As our story scans to greensleeves…
My words were sharp, my verses stung,
My poet’s vengeance pursued thee;
But everywhere this song is sung,
All other tunes elude me
Greensleeves has been your bane
Greensleeves went round your head
Greensleeves you have heard again,
For everything scans to greensleeves…
My soul I bartered for this song
And my artistic integrity
‘Twas repetitious and too long
And far too catchy for poetry…
Greensleeves was heard in lifts
Greensleeves from ice-cream vans
Greensleeves in shopping malls,
It’s really not hard to play greensleeves…
This song is getting out of hand,
The verses run interminably,
There is no place in all the land,
That’s free of that endless melody.
Greensleeves is now my bane
Greensleeves goes round my head
Greensleeves I cannot escape,
For everything sounds like greensleeves…
Well, I will pray to God on high,
That he my tragedy mayst see,
And that yet soon before I die,
He wilt take this song from me.
Greensleeves has been my bane
Greensleeves has filled my head
Greensleeves is everywhere,
There’s no escape from greensleeves…
Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, begone,
To God I pray to escape thee,
These verses, have run on and on
Take pity, now, and leave me.
Greensleeves has been my bane
Greensleeves has filled my head
Greensleeves has sent me mad,
There is no song but greensleeves…
Cate Speaks is now archived on PANDORA, the National Library of Australia's Web Archive
