The Death Of Caesar

Julius Caesar did, with disdain, snort

through nasal appendage of Roman sort

at Decimus Brutus carrying sacks

about to burst with  patisserie snacks.

With thund'rous bombast did Brutus declare,

"Hail Caesar!  Please try a chocolate eclair ...

... or, Jules, you might prefer a nice Bath bun.

Go on, choose a cake -- but, please, take just one.

The rest are for the lads in the Senate.

I'm off to the loo ... back in a minute ..."

Leaving his cakes, he departed the scene

to hoist his toga and splash porcelain.

Under arched eyebrows Emperor Caesar 

peered regally down his Latin sneezer

at sticky, sweet treats in the nearest sack.

His eyes took a taste; how could he hold back!?

He gazed on fancies as big as a fist --

This Roman tyrant refused to resist!

That itch of temptation cried to be scratched.

As swift as a hawk his hand swooped and snatched

a couple of cakes, and to his mouth flew.

He swallowed those cakes with barely a chew.

His ablutions over, Brutus bounded

back into the room, and was astounded

to witness Caesar's gluttonous disgrace,

crumbs, icing and jam obscuring his face.

"Jupiter save us!  Was one not enough?

I'd promised Cassius that lovely cream puff ..."

And with these strong words bold Brutus drew steel,

and, lending deaf ears to Caesar's appeal 

("Those buns were delicious -- really, quite nice.

How could I stop myself trying them twice?)

he drove his king through, knife up to the hilt,

saw Caesar's surprise at this sudden jilt.

"You're a greedy despot," Brutus explained,

          "You no longer suit us."

"I only ...," uttered Caesar, pausing, pained,

          straining, "... ate two, Brutus ..."

                                                 (c)Frank Rooney

On Roman Numerals

How the Romans write out thirty

Is, to my mind, rather dirty.

It's no surprise I think of sex

When thirty's written XXX.

                                                           (c)Frank Rooney

Like A Strolling Gnome

In a lapse of sobriety Elizabethan society

Has taken Bob Dylan to task.

With drunk impropriety 'lizabethan society

Of Mr Bob Dylan did ask:

"Why did you steal from Christopher Marlowe?

Do not deny it!

We know you did so!

You know you've been caught --

Your complexion's most wan --

We know you wrote not

Mr Tamburlaine Man."

                           (c)Frank Rooney

Hypocrisy: An Acrostic

Kindly greet me with great gusto;

I will greet you likewise, friend.

Sat together till the cock's crow

Springs upon us the short night's end.

Many topics we shall tackle,

You with your take and I with mine,

And, yet, not break friendship's shackle;

Respecting each the other's line.

So sit not silently, but let

Exchange adhere to etiquette.

                                                               (c)Frank Rooney

Miles Davis cartoon

                                    Miles Davis does DIY

From options many more than few,
Could Miles choose which kind of blue?

Exposed!

I never have sufficient time
To do the mildly sleazy crime,
An indiscreet indecency:
An open-air, al fresco pee.

Behind some greenery I stand,
My flaccid manhood in my hand,
And as the waters from me flee,
The Law bears swiftly down on me.

"Son, do your trousers up!" They cry.
"Please, hang that somewhere else to dry!"

                                                                                               (c)Frank Rooney

Johnny Cash cartoon

Johnny Cash shot a man in Renal.

                                                                                     (c)Frank Rooney

Such scatological kinds are the French,
Of philosophical mind re life's stench:
No riot-act rage or two-fingered V,
The merely shrug and declare, "Say Lavy!"

From the French we got haute cuisine (well, who does like their dinner cauld?).  They taught us how to kiss properly, and introduced an interesting line in written correspondence.  The finest wines are said to come from France (and not from Buckfast Abbey, as is opined in certain areas of this country), and it's also a corker of a place for the culture.  The Mona Lisa loiters in the Louvre with many other oily masterpieces, and poetry has poured out from Paris like the serpentine Seine.  Paris' Pigalle is still a bawdy lair, and from Paris hailed Baudelaire, the potentate of pickled poets the world over.

The Big Cheese of French literature, however, is Emile Zola.  A stern chap, his gaze was said to turn those upon whom it fell to stone.  He was known by his contemporaries as the Great Gorgon Zola.  Did I mention that he he's regarded as the Big Cheese of French literature?


Correction

It is a fact not widely known
That Candide's author was not grown
In the City of Paris
In the country of France,
But in a Warsaw parish,
Purely by chance.

Omitted too from history's sheet,
Is that he was a fine athlete:
An Olympian,
Highly classed,
He always won,
Never came last.

Folk on the street of oft declare
Fullest praise for the Pole, Voltaire.

(c)Frank Rooney

Dancing Dickens

After he invented the Oliver Twist, critics

had Gyrate Expectations of Charles Dickens.

                                       
                                                                                                           (c)Frank Rooney

I walked into a shop selling computer accessories and asked a salesperson if they had a good case for a laptop.
"Well, " she answered, stroking her chin, "they're less bulky and more portable than a desktop, but more substantial than a tablet."

He was a charismatic pyromaniac.  He would light up a room ...

Leonard Cohen Cartoon - Leonard's Cone

                                                                                               (c) Frank Rooney

One of the great unexplained mysteries in life -- after the Big Question, "Is there a Richard Dawkins?" -- is why does so much of Munich's Oktoberfest take place in September?  There are only a few days of the Oktoberfest that actually take place in October.  So much of it takes place in September that the Germans really ought to rename that great bacchanal of beer-guzzling and Wurst-chomping the Septemberfest.  For a nations famed for its philosophers, this seems a remarkably illogical way to go about things.

We have the Germans to thank for the Gutenburg press, a revolutionary piece of late-medieval gadgetry that eventually lead to the mass production of books ... and impeccably creased trousers.

After Goethe and Schiller, Germany's most influential author was Thomas Mann.  Lured to a life on the waves, his career in the navy was an extremely busy, though short-lived one.  Permanently exhausted after jumping to the commands, "Mann, the lifeboats!", "Mann, the rigging!", "Mann, the side!", he suddenly left the navy when someone shouted, "Mann, overboard!"


Well, if you were to spill your beer,
I'm sure you'd be annoyed, eh?
But I would laugh until I ached:
Now, that is Schadenfreude.