A quick little poem I knocked up dedicated to Britain in winter. Rough and ready. Cheap and cheerful.
Britannia Hibernalis
"Hark the herald angels sing"??
Here in Britain, no such thing.
All our yuletide angels cough,
Curse the cold, then bugger off.
It's not dull like people say -
See! Our many shades of grey.
Look around! There's nudity -
Every branch on every tree.
Like to party through the night?
Eighteen hours a day, no light.
Hate when dogcrap stains your shoes?
Winter hounds leave frozen poos.
Sit on Jolly Santa's knee!
(Watch his hands. Avoid the pee.)
Don't head off for warmer climes...
Stay for soggy, groggy times!
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this i HAD to comment
ReplyDeletebuggering
peeing
roving hands
nudity
wat more!
The poem's metrical scheme is anacreontics. Stephen Fry though says it "MUST concern itself with pleasure, wine, erotic love and the fleeting nature of existence". Whether it does or not I'll leaver the reader to decide. Otherwise it's simply seven-syllable trochaic tetrameter. (Try saying that after a few drinks!)
ReplyDeleteTrickiest thing I've noticed while composing this and other verse that begins with a stressed syllable, is a tendency to slip automatically into an iambic beginning for a new line - then realising that although the rhythm sounds good it doesn't fit the meter i'm actually using..