At least four dimensions were always unstable
Which meant that he never was really quite able
To know just exactly how big or how small
Or whenever or where was whatever at all.
Hurro, Grasshopper. 
Is this a thread about the sound of one hand crapping?
If you mean: Is this a thlead about the sound of one hand crapping?
Yes!!! :lol:
I do like this form of wit, but I sometimes wonder which grass they were hopping on?
Belloc
Both during his lifetime and since, Belloc’s refusal to tone down his views, and his contempt for the political, literary and social establishments of the day, militated against recognition of him as a major writer and thinker. Nor was he helped by the range of his work; critics like to pigeon-hole a writer as poet, historian, playwright, or novelist, and they could not cope with his diversity, huge output, and his overwhelming ebullience. They resented him. even today, that fear and resentment is to be seen in the dismissive little articles and reviews, but slowly the truth is emerging that Hilaire Belloc is among the great writers of English prose and that the best of his verse is of equally high quality. More importantly, he was a thinker of power, significance and - how rare these days - integrity. Where are the people today who would sacrifice the material rewards of public life and office as did Belloc when he demanded, in Parliament in 1908 and repeatedly thereafter, that the funds of political parties should be subject to audit? We need men like him to come to the rescue of our present sick society.
My impertinent buttocks
High, redolent, tight as dark drums
Send the wind to shake tall grasses
Introduce frenzy into the hearts of small men.
Angela Mayou …Now Sheba Sings the Song
:mrgreen:
O, there is a boy across the river
With buttocks like a peach
But, alas, I cannot swim.
(?Pathan? lament, as recalled from one of John Masters’ autobiographical books.)
To digress for a moment:
John Masters must be one of my favourite writers. Particularly his fictional WW1 trilogy - Loss of Eden
Back on track:
“Yet Ovid’s wanton Muse did not offend: He is the fountain whence my streams do flow!"
Old Jock abhorred the shocking price of stilton,
they asked too much for such a modest cheese,
he strode into the store without his kilt on,
and showed them all some Highlands expertise.
:lol:
Bluebottle goes to corner, sits down on his head, and ponders existential consequences of Oriental language which pronounces r as l in ‘thread’ but l as r in ‘clapping’.
After deep consideration, Bluebottle falls in the water.
Was this an existentially inevitable act; an act of zen mastery; or just clumsiness?
Well may you ask, Grasshopper.
The Scots are noted for frugality, as is this young man.
There was a young man from Belgrave,
Who kept a dead whore in a cave.
He said I’ll admit, I’m a bit of a shit
But think of the money I save.
P.S. My last post should not be interpreted as endorsing unbridled necrophilia (or even the bridled kind if you have a horse).
I think there are limits to everything.
My limit on shagging dead sheilas is to do it only while they’re still warm, but only if you’ve been married for a while as you won’t be able to tell the difference.
simply wow.
In order to line in with the randomness:
Brazil - The country with the most beautiful murder victims
Oh, my Goodness – place for a symbolic poetry at our distinguished web-site! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! I am chortling in my joy! :lol:
However, gentlemen, there still is an important unresolved question: what nonsense really is? You see, so much of what we call nonsense is full of factual meaning. Is there nothing in prose or poetry which is truly nonsensical?
Take for example this poetic diamond of late Mr. Patric Barrington:
The Diplomatic Platypus
[i]I had a duck-billed platypus when I was up at Trinity,
With whom I soon discovered a remarkable affinity.
He used to live in lodgings with myself and Arthur Purvis,
And we all went up together for the Diplomatic Service.
I had a certain confidence, I own, in his ability,
He mastered all the subjects with remarkable facility;
And Purvis, though more dubious, agreed that he was clever,
But no one else imagined he had any chance whatever.
I failed to pass the interview, the board with wry grimaces
Took exception to my boots and then objected to my braces,
And Purvis too was failed by an intolerant examiner
Who said he had his doubts as to his sock-suspender’s stamina.
Our summary rejection, though we took it with urbanity
Was naturally wounding in some measure to our vanity;
The bitterness of failure was considerably mollified,
However, by the ease with which our platypus had qualified.
The wisdom of the choice, it soon appeared, was undeniable;
There never was a diplomat more thoroughly reliable.
The creature never acted with undue precipitation O,
But gave to every question his mature consideration O.
He never made rash statements his enemies might hold him to,
He never stated anything, for no one ever told him to,
And soon he was appointed, so correct was his behaviour,
Our Minister (without Portfolio) to Trans-Moravia.
My friend was loved and honoured from the Andes to Esthonia,
He soon achieved a pact between Peru and Patagonia,
He never vexed the Russians nor offended the Rumanians,
He pacified the Letts and yet appeased the Lithuanians,
Won approval from his masters down in Downing Street so wholly, O,
He was soon to be rewarded with the grant of a Portfolio,
When on the Anniversary of Greek Emancipation,
Alas! He laid an egg in the Bulgarian Legation.
This untoward occurrence caused unheard-of repercussions,
Giving rise to epidemics of sword-clanking in the Prussians.
The Poles began to threaten, and the Finns began to flap at him,
Directing all the blame for this unfortunate mishap at him;
While the Swedes withdrew entirely from the Anglo-Saxon dailies
The right of photographing the Aurora Borealis,
And, all efforts at rapprochement in the meantime proving barren,
The Japanese in self-defence annexed the Isle of Arran.
My platypus, once thought to be more cautious and more tentative
Than any other living diplomatic representative,
Was now a sort of warning to all diplomatic students
Of the risks attached to negligence, the perils of imprudence,
Beset and persecuted by the forces of reaction, O,
He reaped the consequences of his ill-considered action, O,
And, branded in the Honours List as ‘Platypus, Dame Vera’,
Retired, a lonely figure, to lay eggs in Bordighera.[/i]
Now, this is all perfectly possible and even reasonable, except that it is an animal which commits the diplomatic indiscretion, instead of the usual, human diplomat…
I should not venture to suggest that there is any special significance in the climax of the story, where a promising diplomat turns out to be a sexual anomaly. But apart from that, is it so absurd to think of a platypus as a statesman? After all, there have been chimpanzees which could paint, and in our time we have seen in the field of international affairs weasels, rabbits, wolves and vipers. Therefore – hooray for the Poetry of Nonsensical Wisdom!
I’m Late, I’m Late
for a very important date,
No time to say hello, goodbye,
I’m late, I’m late, I’m late
and when I wave,
I lose the time I save.My fuzzy ears and whiskers
took me too much time to shave.
I run and then I hop, hop, hop,
I wish that I could fly.There’s danger if I dare to stop
and heres the reason why,
(you see) I’m overdue.
I’m in a rabbit stew,
Cant even say goodbye, hello,
I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.
…
Yesterday, upon the stair
I saw a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish, he’d go away.
…
A diplomat, promising or not, who turned out not to be a sexual anomaly would be an anomaly.
And on that point I should recall the story of a British diplomat, possibly in Moscow but maybe somewhere else, early in the 20th century, who wrote to his friend Reginald in England about a member of perhaps the Turkish or some related legation. He wrote something along the lines of:
“We have a new member of the Turkish staff. His name is Mustafa Kunt. Well, Reggie, we all feel like that from time to time …”
As pompous as a pompous poet
Writing pompous poetry
To pompous you-s and pompous Me-s
Reading pompous similes
She whispered “will it hurt me?”
“Of course not” answered he
“It’s a very simple process,
You can rely on me.”
She said “I’m very frightened,
I’ve not had this before.
My friend has had it five times
And said it can be sore.”
It was growing rather painful
Tears formed in her eyes
It was hurting quite a bit now
It must have been a size.
“Calm yourself” he whispered
"His face filled with a grin
“Try and open wider
So I can get it in.”
“It’s coming now” he whispered
“I know” she cried in bliss
Feeling it deep within her now
She said “I am glad I’m having this.”
And with a final effort
She gave a frightened shout
He gripped it in anguish
And quickly pulled it out.
She lay back quite contended
Sighed and gave a smile
She said “I’m glad I came now
You made it worth my while.”
Now if you read this carefully
The dentist you will find
Is not what you imagined
It’s just your dirty mind!!