Super spreader

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It’s lack of social distancing I fear
each time some numbskull prances near,
it’s then a twisted new refrain
comes fast, unbidden, to the brain:

“Tonight the superspreader bugs are gonna find me, gasping out for air,
wheezing, needing care,
feeling like I need a prayer.”

What’s the problem with these chancers,
inching close like bloody dancers?
Do I need a six-foot stick,
or do they need a damn good kick?

“Superspreader bugs are gonna mind me, I may need a pill,
yes, I’m sure I will
if someone in the crowd feels ill.”

Each time some numbskull prances near
it’s lack of social distancing I fear.

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With apologies to Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus. This coronaverse brought to you by the letter S.

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Jabberwockery

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‘Twas brilliant, the way science worked
to make coronavirus ancient news;
those vaccines going where virus lurked:
it’s good to counter awful news.

One, two, and phew! for now we’re through!
The arm has had its little jab.
The side effects are far and few,
and kudos goes to every lab.

O fab’lous day! Hip hip hooray!
Just one more jab and then we’re done.
Let all who can, be jabbed, I pray,
though one quick prick is rarely fun.

Beware the antivaxxers, everyone!
The lies that fright, the lies that kill!
Beware the news that’s fake, and shun
the ever-turning rumour mill!

‘Twas brilliant, the way science worked
to make coronavirus ancient news;
those vaccines going where virus lurked:
it’s good to counter awful news.

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This coronaverse parody of Lewis Carroll’s poem was brought to you by the letter J.

Exercise regime

I sing of arms, and of the man,
and woman too, and legs and mind.
Though virus is a plaguey thing,
inertia’s too, I think you’ll find.
Before we shuffle off our coils
let’s exercise from hearth and home,
and ere we cease from mental fight
let’s exercise our right to roam …
but not too far from our front door:
for don’t they say that less is more?

Let ‘balance’ be our touchstone word
while Covid beats at mankind’s gate:
do what we can, stay safe and sound,
and patiently keep watch, and wait.
With lockdown workouts in our homes
(and cycling, running, jogging, walking)
crosswords, quizzes, books and poems
(and phone calls, zoom calls, keeping talking) —
much mental exercising is the key,
and not just physical, trust me!

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Coronaverse: an alphabet of terms related to Covid-19. Tomorrow brings us the letter F.

Sagacious

You know those two hobbits called Baggins? Their trips only came after naggings from Gandalf the wizard. They wandered through blizzard and mines, then they drank loads of flagons. Now, one found a ring of great power, and one found his way to a tower to bring down a Dark Lord, or perish in Mordor; a deed which caused Sauron to glower.

There’s sadness, adventure and mirth in the lands all around Middle Earth. Right in the middle’s what’s won with some riddles: a magical ring of great worth.

Now a saga is something quite serious, potentous, designed to quite weary us. A limerick’s light, reputedly trite, unsuited to epics imperious. So a story of hobbits, and wizards, and elves, and matters a saga digs down to and delves is no topic for limerick, it’s pointless to mimic. If you want such a tale you must write it yourselves!

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Edward III

Image credit WordPress Free Photo Library

Christopher Robin is saying his prayers,
Asking his Maker for good names for bears.
He doesn’t like Edward, or Teddy, but dares
Winnie, or Pooh.

When he’s mounting the stairs
Or wandering in woods and digging out lairs
Pooh — say it loud! — is a good name for bears.

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Edmund Bentley‘s rhymes for clerihew must be very few,
As the task’s quite hairy, do at least make them merry too!

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There once was an Edward called Lear
Writing nonsense but, just to be clear,
He also did artwork
(and this was the perk)
Got to travel and not stay just here.

Cutting a long story short

Once upon a time there were three bears, a daddy bear, a mummy bear and a baby bear.

One day Goldilocks came to visit them and … the Three Bears promptly ate her up.

And the Three Bears lived happily ever after.

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Twisted rhymes

Mary had a little lamb
(she ate it with some mint):
She’d killed it with her own fair hands;
Her heart was cold as flint.

Sing a song of sixpence,
Politicians lie,
Spouting arrant nonsense:
“Brexit, do or die!”

Jack and Jill weren’t taught to kill
but he went on to slaughter:
to have some fun he took his gun
to shoot some son or daughter.
He wished to make his country great
or maybe strong and stable;
with every breath he dealt a death
as fast as he was able.

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Doggerel days

So autumn comes to southern climes:
bid farewell now to summer,
the best of times. The worst of times?
When fingers get much number.

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Dog days are the really hot days of summer when Sirius the ‘dog star’ briefly appears before the sun dawns in the northern hemisphere. Doggerel days can be at any other time

This piece of doggerel was inspired by a post on the blog Gert Loveday’s Fun with Books.

We’re all stardust

Catch a falling star, put it in your pocket.
It won’t take you far: for that you’ll need a rocket.
Blast off into space, spaceman that you are. Just
don’t fall, in that case, right back to earth as stardust

Or I’ll catch a falling star …

Apportioning blame

The quality of spam is much declin’d.
It droppeth as the state of public discourse
Upon our eyes and ears is daily ‘smirched.
It blasteth him that gives and him that takes:
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it ill becomes
The thronèd tweeter in his office,
Whose textspeak shows the force of ignorant power
(No attribute to awe and majesty)
Wherein doth sit his wanton spiteful thoughts.

But spamming sits below this septic sway;
It is embedded in the hearts of those
Who think to embody the soul of wit itself;
Their online power resembleth trolls’
Whose cruelty seasons hate.

Rhyme without reason

Hey diddle-diddle
Come read me my riddle
Sing hickory dickory dock
For down came a spider
A gossamer glider
And landed on Bo Peep’s blue frock

This creature so lowly
She brushed off real slowly
Then played on her didgeridoo
She charmed not just creatures
But parsons and preachers
Who featured in France’s Who’s Who

Her sheep were not fazed
For they grew fat and grazed
Till a wolf with a weasely grin
Slipped the sheep, plus a goat,
Past his jaws down his throat,
By the hairs on his chinny chin chin

The spider then teased
The old wolf till he sneezed
Who then coughed up sheep, plus the goat,
And a cat with a fiddle, a rope round its middle,
Attached to a lifebelt and boat

So now ends my riddle
Puss played on its fiddle
And Bo Peep her didgeridoo
I hope you find pleasing
My rhyme without reason
Au revoir, tally ho, toodle-oo!