Extra Pound's Sentimental Verse

Extra's Song

Help me not fend
or fetch this clock!
I'll fix it to the wall!

Just stand, defend,
with wretched Glock,
the aviator's call!

Dust heap, forfend,
nor watch that flock
march goose step down the hall!

All youth, befriend,
Each door unlock,
watch goslings, eager all!

Now, that's a strong call to action in the tradition of fascist farce-force songs!

A Little Foolishness

Fooled

Full full of himself
felt old Extra Pound;
Of that could one quite
well expound, profound,
for full of himself
felt old Extra Pound.

I cannot fathom whence some rhymes have come, but who cares?

Give or Take Eternity: Re-Visited

I left something out of this poem, so here the poem is again, very slightly altered:

Our Eternal Wages

If the wages of sin is truly death,
God owes to us each one a final breath-
taking moment that he might then recall
the nefesh of life he gave to us all,
the psyche of soul, a foretaste of spirit,
the pneuma of life, the ruach within it.

It now truly says a lot: Saint Paul's glorification of the resurrected body in a nutshell!

Give or Take Eternity: Getting Paid

Our Eternal Wages

If the wages of sin is truly death,
God owes to us each one a final breath-
taking moment that he might then recall
the nefesh of life he gave to us all,
the psyche of soul, a foretaste of spirit,
the pneuma of life, the abundance within it.

And that says a lot: Saint Paul's glorification of the resurrected body in a nutshell!

Update: See next blog entry.

More Non-Limericks

Ship's Hold

Our Extra Pound
has grown quite old,
and yet's renowned
as good as gold,
but should be bound
by four walls cold.

We don't want to forget the ceiling or the floor, of course:

Ship's Hold

Our Extra Pound
has grown quite old,
and yet's renowned
as good as gold,
but should be bound
by four walls cold.
Two more redound
and all's a-told.

Not a Limerick

Extra Pound

was up on down,
soon on late,
to on fro,

and more or less straight.

Serpentine Old Man

The Serpent?

Silent slithered snakelike the old man from his tree,
and coiled his scaley legs below one scaley knee,
where there lurked a knotty knotty naughty problem,
not that the man were lost of thought or fallen dumb,
but that this knot awaits: the Alexander "Key."

Memories are Short, but so is Time

Timely Memories

Once had a good time by all,
but whether by autumn or fall,
or springtime or lent,
some calendric event,
I do not recall now at all.

"Ruby, Don't Don't Take Your Love to Town"

The great Mel Tillis wrote the lyrics to this song, and several performing artists have tried their hand at it, but seems to me that Kenny Rogers has given us the definitive cover.

I'm not entirely sure of the lyrics below, for there's some slippage in the 'verbiage,' but I've put together a plausible version:

Ruby, Don't Don't Take Your Love to Town 

You've painted up your lips and rolled and curled your tinted hair.
Ruby, are you contemplating going out somewhere?
The shadows on the wall tell me the sun is going down.
Oh Ruby, don't take your love to town.

It wasn't me who started that old crazy Asian war,
But I was proud to go and do my patriotic chore.
And yes, it's true that I am not the man I used to be.
Oh Ruby, I still need some company.

It's hard to love a man whose legs are bent and paralyzed,
And the wants and the needs of a woman your age, Ruby, I realize,
But it won't be long, I've heard them say, until I'm not around.
Oh Ruby, don't take your love to town.

She's leaving now 'cause I just heard the slamming of the door,
The way I know I've heard it slam one hundred times before,
And if I could walk,* I'd get my gun and put her in the ground.
Oh Ruby, don't take your love to town.

A great song. One little flaw, though. When the man said, "And if I could walk, I'd get my gun and put her in the ground," I thought, "Well, if you could walk, you'd be able to meet Ruby's needs, and you wouldn't need to put her in the ground, 'cause she wouldn't be taking her love to town."

But I've heard some versions that say "If I could move,* I'd get my gun and put her in the ground." That might resolve the logical conundrum. Maybe my friend Bill Vallicella could drop in and clear things up.

Troubled Times

Time's Decline

The time was late,
the hour near.
Yet still she stood
in line so queer.

The hour late,
the time was near.
Yet stood she still
in line so queer.

The hour late,
the time was near.
Still stood she yet
in line so queer.

The hour late,
the time was near.
Still yet she stood.
in line so queer.

The time was late,
the hour near.
Yet still she stood
in line so queer.

Smelly Dog

How's That Dog Smell?

Old Extra Pound could snuff the coffied ground
and carry on because his nose was sound!
And even when hot upon the still-hot trail,
Pound managed to constrain his wagging tail!
He was a good dog, after all, as we found!

But how does he smell? Terrible! Just terrible.

Fascist Leanings

Sacramental Is-lamb for Extra Pound?

Against each monotheism inveighed Old Extra Pound,
though he held a secret feeling for the one that came around
mouthing anti-Jewish wishes
that were shared, so unselfish-ish,
such that soon as thick as thieves they'd both abound!

Says Who?

A Foisted Poem

"A toast!" Pound toasted, raising the toasted
toast extra high, as if it were a roast,
or a sin,
once again,
as if such were whereof up high to boast.

The Big Why

The Big Why

Extra Pound wondered once aloud, "Why
do my friends in this world all go by
bearing animal names
barely suiting their frames?
If I can't find out why, I'll just die!"

Cousin Cuisine

Turtles

Old Terrapin, the High and Mighty Low,
considered Cousin Tortoise Down Below.
Tortoise was the lowest of the turtles,
rumored to be tasty cooked with myrtles'
astringent berries, but who, then, would know?

Are these Kissing Cuisine?

Fallen Paradise

Paradise Gone

Terrapin, the High and Mighty Low,
dreamt of a garden where he once could go
freely, unafraid, discouraged not
from entering within that now-dark plot,
but many tears from way back when did flow.

La Rue de La Rue?

Stygian Crypt

From darkness through darkness to darkness, he flew,
with message so dark even Raven would rue
when broken in halves was the seal blooded-red,
with writing that told of the ashes of dead.
Still Pound spoke of naught what he knew to be true.

Raven's Flight

Lamp Black Flight

In the ill of night flew Raven by storm,
ignoring each import of undersea norm;
Like witch over water, depth of ink blue,
he flew and he flew, and he flew, and flew,
till last clutched his claw cognizable form.

Post Age

Out Lout

Rat Fink and Kit Cat laughed out and about
Extra propounding futility: out-
rageous, gay laughter, far lighter than air,
it entered each den and freshened each lair,
but shamed Extra Pound, imperial lout.

A Test Hard as Nails

At Ease in Zion

"It's very hard," growled roughly Extra Pound,
as hard upon the Hard-Shell Baptist round
of Terrapin, the High and Mighty Low,
on whom he struck many a mighty blow,
voice of the turtle still at ease was found.

Extra Pound Unsound

Sacramental

Closer, and closer, to the iron point,
a yearly metal meal waits to anoint
the king with blood and metal mystery,
a rite held, as each date in history,
a ritual to cleave from joint each joint.

Extra Pound dreams of a medieval mystery meal, a sacrifice turned sacrament, shrouded in time's dark miasma.

'Editional' Thought: Maybe I should title the poem "Sacremetal."

No Kidding

Extra Pound Recites

Adorno declared that poetic wits
could find no expression after Auschwitz.
The old man was deadly serious then,
more serious than any deadly sin.
Lest one hear it not: Auschwitz ist kein Witz.

Right, but what was Pound's position on all this? Hasn't he just made a joke in a poem about Auschwitz? And not just any joke, but a limerick! Hmm . . . leaves a bad taste in one's mouth.

Grammar Rules!

Damnable Words

A stupid word is stupendous,
derived from Latin stupidus,
but these two words don't rhyme too well,
so we'll end up in Dante's Hell:
yes, you and me; yes, really us.

A Pseudo-Italian like Pound is strict about rules . . .

Cold Emotions

High Life, Low Life

Extra Pound chuckled forth a snort to see how law-
like Rat Fink and Kit Cat were held in awe,
how "Terrapin, the High and Mighty Low,"
could lift himself so high and let himself, solo,
down onto the frozen hard ground land with one last (c)raven aw . . .

Virus of High Life suspends all Low Life social interaction?

Trainin'

Crying Shame

Rat Fink and Kit Cat, best of fiends,
wept dry tears from lacrimal glands.
Though Rat Fink cried for extenuation,
and Kit Cat cried from other exhaustion,
neither could wet-squeeze even a single glance.

Tears of Age?

Eyes Ergo

A Burning Question

"O Terrapin the High and Mighty Low,
who granted you this knowledge that you know?
For I've never seen you lurk
in a book or hard at work,"
said Extra Pound of mind quite sound and eyes aglow.

The terrapin is thought to be greatly wise.

Being Lost

Loss of Being?

Extra Pound lost an extra extra pound,
yet he feared utter losses to propound,
but since he'd lost only money,
and that soon seemed rather funny,
he did make a joyful noise then to expound.

So sing unsubdued, even if without a clue.

Non-Euclidean Pro-Verb

Beyond the Pro-Verbial

A wise old man once said to me
(and a very wise man was he),
"He who quotes others lacks
(though he lug a persuasive axe),
to think for himself, that rare ability."

Every student ought to memorize and quote these lines, whenever and wherever appropriate.

Waiting out the virus

Metamorphosis

Extra Pound shook his head at the number claimed died
and insisted against such a huge genocide.
"'Toad' sounds like the German word 'Tod,'" he declared.
"This accounts for a miscount, else I'd have despaired
at all the brutal, form-changing, metamorphics," he sighed.

I will abide to see then the true number . . .

Divine Inattention

Muddling Through

Tried Extra Pound to sell his extra pound?
"O Dirty Turtles, no! That were unsound!"
cried Terrapin the High and Mighty Low.
"Toward what great aim would keep them all in tow
where many a perished toad lies underground?"

April, come she will . . .

Michael  Butterworth
offers us
Excerpts from

My Servant the Wind:
A Diary of the New Wave

May 30th 2030

He is netting only fragments. In frustration he tries harder, becoming more confident with each attempt. Once 'arrived' here, he even attempts to 'think back' to pre-atomic conditions, like I spend so much of my time doing in reality now. Clawed from the future, these pieces eerily correspond to my present-day reveries - when he, the wind, allows me them.

[Non-Textual Insertion: My typing skills have declined so much that I needed about an hour to copy the above excerpt through typing it, which is why I don't quote as much as I used to, though I enjoy the excerpt, which tells me that it's from the future, and that bit of information problematizes the chronology somewhat for me, as I'd thought that the past [1971] was, in effect, our present, and that we were receiving fragments from the future [2030]. {Update: In the light of day, I'm not sure what I meant last night, except perhaps that 2030 seems not to be a mere fragment from the future.} Things also to know: The entries fall into Column A or Column B, which also happen to overlap, spatially, though not in the same space at the same time. The 'story' is a post-apocalyptic one, and though it jumps back and forth in time, from before and after the apocalypse, the reader soon adjusts and follows through. Highly recommended reading.]