ewee's Book

thou hast slain the spinsydock
that harmish did our trade

no more to frown, the bank rate down
the borrowmores be made

all mouthy were the spinsydocks
and twisted slicky mongst the press
now hard and fast the shares and stocks

balance no more a mess

the little old man

is it nature or nurture? are we born or reared?
the product of genes or socially engineered?
born quite complete, no bits left to chance

finished at birth, nothing left to enhance
the shape of my life put down to mere fate

the result of conception on a fixed date
am i who i am, my character set?

not subject to change the older i get?
if i rob a bank can you blame it on me

if biology is the making of me?

if it’s nurture, not nature, we’re fruits of our day
it’s social conditioning not dna

the learning of values begins in the pram
it must be my background that shapes who i am

how impressionable am i? like putty or clay?
or a blotter that soaks information all day?
are we slaves to our class, gaoled by our past
chained to our backgrounds, stuck in our cast?

if i rob a bank can you blame it on me
if society is the making of me?

nature and nurture, it’s just not enough
we each have free will and its powerful stuff
you can call it a consciousness, call it a soul
it comes from space, from inside a black hole
at the moment of birth you pick up your soul

from a little old man in a big black hole
each one is different, no two are the same

if you don’t like your soul
the old man’s to blame
when your time is up,

you’re finished with your soul
it goes back to the old man
in the big black hole

twas chrimble and the scroogely banks
did suade the pillings to unsave
all stinsly were the gleedlyshanks
while the presents were outgave

beware the chrimblestock, my girl!
the hopes that make the last the best

beware the grannystox and hurl
the tantrous disupsest

she took the fleecy stox in hand
and twangled granny’s woolsome bulk

then rested by the chrimble tree
and sat awhile in sulk



and as in humpish sulk she sat
the chrimblestock all toes acurl
came snakeling ‘cross the sheeply mat

and laddered as it came

one,two! one,two! and through and through
the sciscal blades went snicker-snack
and laid it low and without its toe
it went galimping back

what hast thou done to the chrimblestock?
it has no toe, you peevish girl!

untwangling gran the woolsome block
she set once more to purl

love is a knot
hate is a twist
love is fluid
hate is solid
love matures
hate ferments
love thickens
hate congeals
love hungers
hate consumes
love endures
hate lingers
love is inside looking out
hate is outside looking in
love is being with
hate is being without

love is
hate isn’t

103

he looked faintly ridiculous
trying to stand to attention
on a cold November morning

a frail old man of 103

they stare at polished shoes
wring hands for one long minute

the old man with medals stays
others melt away for ritual tea

he can’t remember his own name
where his shoes are, what day it is
but vividly he sees the frozen faces
and hears “The Roses of Picardy”

as if it were yesterday. Each year
on a cold November morning
asks why they are gone and he’s

a frail old man of 103

cupped hands
make a tiny bowl

big eyes
in a big head
not pleading
beyond that
arms like sticks
you think they’ll snap
all she wants
is one bowl

instead
she’s on telly