Sweet, lovely butterfly,
blessed in many ways,
flitting through my flowers
I’ve been stalking you for days
…through my bedroom window
from behind a fine mesh screen.
I can’t go in the garden
to enjoy the things you’ve seen.
I’m allergic to the stingy-things,
to bumble-bees and such.
The mozzies and the horse-flies
enjoy my blood too much.
Sandflies found my scalp, one day
and sucked my brains to death.
I counted up the bites
until I reached the twenty-eth.
I wish I’d had some DDT
to teach those pests a lesson.
One master-blast would do the job
and stop those insects messin’.
But I have to use Pyrethrum
‘cos it’s kinder to the nose.
It kills the bugs off gently
…so the information goes.
So bye-bye busy bee
and ta-ta nasty fly,
and – sorry – Mr Butterfly,
you also have to die.
We drove 40 kilometres
and didn’t see one cow.
We live in a big city
which has no farmlands now.
It’s an urbanized conglomerate
to such a marked degree
no-one knows that apples
grow and ripen on a tree.
Kids believe that milk
is manufactured in the fridge.
Coffee comes in golden pods
to brew one bev-er-age.
Peas start in the freezer
and reach the dinner-plate
via buttons on a microwave
at quite a rapid rate.
Pristine food abounds
that never smells of dirt.
If we take it all for granted
then we’ll get our just dessert.
Far off on planet Zorrog
the seas are a purpley-pink.
The trees are all gold and silver.
And the mountains are lilac – we think.
There again, on distant Thorrassa
the plants are all orange and puce.
And are just as entrancing, in their own way,
as the shimmering aqua of Zeus.
Here, on Earth, the rivers run brown.
And the air is a sludgy-grey.
The high-rise towers are a sooty off-white.
(But we’ll clean it all up, one day.)
Sunshine and rain are both lovely
when they arrive at a suitable time.
But when rain drizzles down almost daily
that’s when sunshine comes into your mind.
It’s when frost nips your toes and your fingers
that a mirage of sand seems just right.
Then when sand burns your soles at the seaside…
…yes…a cloud is a welcoming sight.
Snowflakes seem gentle and precious
‘til they block-up the path to your car.
Then you wish that a wind would transport you
some place magic, like Zanzibar.
Free range chooks are not battery hens –
there’s a difference in how they behave
The pickings-and-peckings are sim’lar
but the life-style is not so depraved.
I wish I couldn’t see
the monkey in the tree
who laughs at everything I do
then shoots a pee at me.
His grinning face bedevils me
I’ll throw a stone one day
to clonk him on his silly head
and drive the beast away.
But if I send him packing
what will the outcome be?
Who’ll lively-up my footsteps
as I pass by that tree?
How can I possibly validate
the workings of my brain
when I see a lovely flower
and then I can’t recall its name?