O, What a Circus

Photo by Lu0103zuran Cu0103lin on Pexels.com

The old man dreamt of the lions
The lions dreamt of lunch
The old man liked lions well-caged
Those lions liked the old man a bunch
A bunch
Of lunch
On which
To munch
The old man owed much to the lions –
His whole career –
But he had a hunch
If the lions called in the debt
He’d be the original credit crunch




All That Jazz

Photo by Lucas Allmann on Pexels.com

Jazz: a contrapuntal elaboration of static harmony –
i.e. barmy, to the uninitiated. It’s chromatic, diatonic, syncopated, pentatonic. It’s harsh on the ear, like a child’s first hearing
of a Shakespearean sonnet, finding the rhythm unclear,
the rhyme invisible, the whole indivisible from a clash
or a bash or a rash of noise. Not all have the chops to relish
bop or bebop, to absorb backbeats and block chords;
yet why not? It is the music of Counts, Dukes and Earls – aristocrats all.

Some ask, What is jazz for?
Counter point: what is any art for?
It is for self-expression; the death of repression; the impromptu
jam session. If you don’t swing that way, that’s cool:
not everyone’s schooled in creativity. Take your time,
whether half/dot/double or broken: jazz is never diminished
by miscomprehension. But try to open up to a little modulation –
a lot more syncopation – take a lick at sweet improvisation.
See your soul augmented as the music pours in;
you’ll find the whole tone legit. Just listen – just hear
and watch the blues quit.



Sheep Fight

Father and son disagreed:

A ram.
A lamb.
A ding-dong,


I can’t believe I’m the first person to come up with this joke but I couldn’t find anything via Google.


I think it might be just a British joke:

[ˈdɪŋdɒŋ, dɪŋˈdɒŋ]
a fierce argument or fight:
“they had a bit of a ding-dong”


But I did find this for my American readers:



Celebrate Good Rhymes, Come on!

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

Okay, that’s a huge assumption, that these rhymes are good, but I’ve been celebrating for three days and I’m a little hungover on relief that I managed to put together three days’ worth of posts without actually having to write anything, so please give me a little latitude.

Or, in other words, the song popped into my head so I punned it, because that’s what I do.

Here are the final two old poems (and as we’re talking about puns…):


On chicken, pork or lamb,
that herb works fine.

I would try others
but I’m kinda busy
and there’s no thyme.


The Drill Bit

Quakes where quakes
were never known:
what the frack
is going on?