A Sonnet On Celebrity

A Sonnet On Celebrity

A Shallow Parody of Shakespeare's

Shall I compare thee to a Christmas tree?

Thou art more gaudy and much more prickly:

Rank Brussels’ breeze does shake sharp needles free,

And Yuletide’s lengthy feast leaves us sickly:

Sometimes, one bulb blown, fairy lights won’t shine,

And each is tested, but less than my calm,

Till the bebaubled branches illumine

Tacky tat wrapped, ribboned, made to look glam:

But thy eternal Christmas fails to cease

So your flatulent frippery lacks vim;

Attempts to enlighten garrulous geese

Would be less trying, for you are so dim.

Christmas is short and can be joyous,

But you just hang around and annoy us.

                                                            (c)Frank Rooney

Christmas: It's All About Giving

Christmas: It's All About Giving

Three wise men came to Bethlehem

Each bearing birthday treats.

Joe and Mary were unimpressed

And asked for the receipts.

Christmas is all about giving.  Well, it used to be ... probably.  We can can blame the three wise men, who trudged all the way from wherever it was they came from to Bethlehem to bother the baby Jesus, for starting this indefatigable tradition.  Mary and Joseph were schacked up in a one-star hotel when Larry, Moe and Curly dropped by bearing gifts of gold, frankfurters (to be fair, they didn't know that he was Jewish and forbidden pork ... but, as is usual in these instances, it's the thought that counts, isn't it?) and myrrh-rhrrrr (an old timey cough remedy, good for shifting phlegm).  Socks had been suggested at the pre-expedition meeting, but, as practical as knitwear for the pedal extremities would have been as gift for a small child in the freezing mid-Winter, nobody wanted to appear cheap.  So much for the wisdom attributed to them ...

(c)Frank Rooney

The Magnificent Seven & the Origins of Christmas

The Magnificent Seven & the Origins of Christmas

In Norse mythology long since faded

As History’s feet down Time’s dirt street trod,

Yul Brynner was loudly accoladed.

He was a popular, though minor god.

His name means “Yule Bringer” from ancient Norse.

He’d cart wood to warm Winter for Odin*,

Which he’d leave in the barn by Odin’s horse,

Crying out, “Ho! O! You’ve got a load in!”

How did Yul travel? You ask. I answer,

By sled he’d sojourn, o’er snow he’d careen,

Dragged by deft deer named Dasher and Dancer,

Prancer, Vixen, Comet and Steve McQueen.

Yul once had more deer to make up his bunch –

Such a line-up, so delightful, not drab –

But saving on feed, he’d many a lunch

Of Cupid, Blitzen and Donner kebab.

*W.H. Odin,

The mythical poet,

Who was mad for the gin,

Down his throat he’d throw it.

                                                                          (c)Frank Rooney

A Joy Forever

A Joy Forever

The results of being vain are vicious:

deluded that one is a delicious

Youth now and for a green eternity ...

it's hard work to maintain that certainty.

When the question, "Quel age?"

always sounds out of tune,

and the made-up visage

is a pained, painted prune,

and your bum's a homage

to a curd-filled balloon,

just siphon the fat out

of those unhappy hips,

make that thin, mean mouth pout ...

the lard fits in your lips.

When Time's traumas wail for measures drastic --

it's too late to detox,

or poison with botox --

pay the cosmetic surgeon ... use plastic.

Or, be bold and unspoiled the beau or belle,

And wear one's hard-won wisdom well.

                                                    (c)Frank Rooney

Scots Wha Hate

Scots Wha Hate

(apologies to Robert Burns)

Scots what hae wi' chips been fed,

Scotch pies, Irn Bru an' pan bread,

Wobble tae an earthy bed,

Or tae surgery.

Smokin' lik a chimney tow'r

Yer tar-bunged lungs lack the pow'r

Tae defluff a dandy-flow'r ...

Cometh the Big C.

Wha'll resist the Buckie crave,

Tae junkie jabs be no slave

An' avoid the glutton's grave?

Let us do or dee.

Wha long for deid kings an' law,

Wha, foolish, ficht o'er fitba',

Poor man wha'd for rich man fa',

Get awa' frae me!

Bigot blood flow through yer veins;

Habits, heirlooms passed tae weans.

Don't let auld blood clog yer brains ...

Then, ye can be free.

Chips on shoulders, there ye go!

Blamin' ev'ryone ye know;

Ye stage such a shameless show.

Where's yer dignity.

                                                              (c)Frank Rooney

Stan Drew's Day

Celebrating Stan Drew

The 30th of November is Stan Drew's Day.  Born hundreds of years ago to Andy Stewart and Fran and Anna, Stan Drew is the man who invented Scotland, the Scotch pie, golf and the Forth rail bridge.  He also invented the Scottish flag when he knocked over a salt cellar while mucking about at the dinner table with young William Wallace, and the salt spilled out in the form of a cross over his mothers' blue table cloth.  His mothers were so angry at the waste of such a precious condiment, they each gave Stan Drew a mighty clip round the earholes.  The is the reason why we call Scotland's national flag the Salt-ire.

Stan Drew invented golf, which is the most famous game in the world.  It started when a game of snooker with Robert the Bruce got out of hand.  The Bruce ate all the coloured balls believing them to be gobstoppers, so Stan chased him into a cave full of spiders and spent the rest of the day whacking the cue ball around in a field.  Stan Drew's Golf Course is known as the home of golf, but that is just the field in which he knocked the ball around.  The actual home of golf is a flat a couple of miles down the road from the holey landscape, a fact I believe the Scottish Tourist Board ought to acknowledge after my incessant petitioning of them to do so.

The Scotch pie he invented as an edible hat to be worn/eaten by golfers during long, torturous games of golf in drizzling rain.  The bridie he invented for the same purpose, but for lady golfers.

So, to good auld Stan Drew we raise our glass of whisky ... which he also invented .... whisky ... and glass, too.

                                                                                                                      (c)Frank Rooney

Flim-Flam - On Meeting Oscar Wilde

Flim-Flam

Imbibing some beers at the bar down my local

the fop Oscar Wilde was dandiacally vocal:

"Drop a flan,

my good man,

in bathtub of water;

it won't plunge

like a sponge --

now jot this in your jotter --

it will sit on the surface

like a leaf on a pond.

It's science, not magic!

Just logic --

no wand!"

I headed home via the shop

to buy a flan, which I did drop

into a bath which I had filled

with water, and was I so thrilled

to see it float like Oscar said?

I was sad and shocked and dismayed ...

Well, the flan did not float

like a little baked boat,

but sunk,sodden, soft mush

to the base of the tub,

brown and sugary slush.

What a waste of good grub!

Never again shall I trust Oscar Wilde!

The ultimate dandy has got me riled;

for I discovered to my annoyance,

that Oscar knows fluff-all of flan-buoyance.

                                                                      (c) Frank Rooney