Citizen Ship 2013. Belfast. Nos 15.
The Flag issue continues and God, I could do with a break from the po-faced seriousness of it all.
This surreal poem is dedicated to Spike Milligan, a man who thought of himself as Irish, yet whose humour was seen as British. Either way, humour is humour, so long as it makes you laugh.
It should be read in the voice of Noel Coward . . . while smoking a cigarette, in a long handled holder, and perhaps, wearing a dressing gown and monocle.
The Ugly Violent Ogre.
The ugly violent ogre, and his mates,
Approached me with all the violence
Of a badly written political speech.
Carrying his words like a clumsily made club
Spiked, with nails.
The club inscribed with the words
Love and hate.
(He was obviously a moderate.)
What could I do?
I only had a single pebble.
Picked up from off
The troubled rocky shores
Of this, my island.
Loading it quickly
Into my long barrelled rifle,
(For I had forgotten my sling-shot).
I fired . . .
And, lo and behold
I shot the ugly and violent ogre
Fair and square
Between his broadly spread eyes,
(It seemed obvious to me that he was of Saxon origin.)
Although I had shot him completely though the brain,
Still, he kept coming.
(His secondary brain, must have been else where).
He rumbled towards me,
Beseeching me in the vernacular . . .
He sang, pointing at a burning bus
Which failed to stop at the pavement.
“Fuh-Queue! Fuh-Queue!”he responded.
Irate (not an Arab state),
Jumping up and down, while waving
What looked like a bus time table at me.
All the time getting closer . . .
One shot and two shots more.
You could have hit him
Like a tractor driving through a barn door.
But still he kept coming,
His head now trailing smoke
Like a burning kebab.
Waving his flag at me.
Shouting threats and insults.
With his head now, half wrapped
In a pair of flag underpants.
The smell was atrocious
And I didn’t know where to look.
(You don’t get this kind of thing
In Marks Spencer).
I shot his ears clean off
With the next two shots,
When I remembered that originally
I had loaded my rifle,
With only one pebble.
“A miracle!” I thought,
Or suspended disbelief.
I pondered briefly on the odds,
The variables and the chances of this
Yet still he came on.
Closer and closer.
Thundering like an out of control
Sylvester Stallone with a bad script.
(Well, that’s red meat for you.)
I continued to fire imaginery pebbles
At this bloody, ugly and violent ogre
Until, eventually he thundered
To an abrupt halt
Having offered him a cigarette,
A Chinese take away
And a six pack of Harp.
He consumed the lot,
Burped, farted, and instantly died
From excessive consumerism.
It was ghastly, and a needless waste
Of tax payer’s money.
Never mind the strain
On the health service.
This only goes to show you
That, with a good aim
And the right ammunition
You can fell any bloody nightmare
From two hundred paces.
Good evening . . .
By Randall Stephen Hall
7th May 2013 ©