Monday 27 August 2018

Move over Miss Muffett!

My next Bardsong is pure light-hearted nonsense.

It arose from a discussion with friends about arachniphobia (fear of spiders) and how one (Angela) coped with spiders in her place.
Must be sung to the tune of "Little Miss Muffett."

This has been reproduced with Ange's permission.
(WARNING: NOT to be sung to your 3yo at bedtime!)

Remember Miss Muffett
Who sat on her tuffet 
With yoghurt, some chips and a beer?
I wonder if Angie 
Would howl like a banshee,
If any big spiders appear?

Though there’s no arachnid
Which can do what Jack did
Who nimbly jumped over the candle.
Will Ange do the same, and flee over the flame?
There’s nothing our Angie can’t handle!

One day Ange was cleaning.
(Her nails she was preening.) 
She heard a clear knock at the door. 
'Twas her neighbour Miss Glossop
Who’d come for a gossip,
Which Ange thought was rather a bore.

But Ange acted rightly, and asked her politely
If she’d like a pot of her brew.
So they sat down and sipped, 
While Miss Glossup’s tongue tripped
Over hearsay both ancient and new.

She spoke of that cupboard
Of poor old Ma Hubbard,
The Lunar launch of a space-cow,
The fiddler so fine – a true gifted feline, 
And the mocking pooch, not so high-brow!

And scand’lous behaviour! 
That scoop from Moravia 
Was courting a sweet china plate!
Far away they absconded
And were nuptually bonded,
But Daddy Dish, he was irate!

One thing we must mention
Got Angie’s attention:
‘Twas the plague of large possums and mouses,
Large spiders so hairy and lairy and scary,
That locals were fleeing their houses!

Just then, right on cue (just as spiders do)
A specimen fell from above.
Miss Glossup ran out with a scream and a shout.
(It happens when push becomes shove.)

But Ange acted nobly,
NOT arachniphobe-ly
Declared she, with firm resolution:
Any spider she finds on her ceiling or blinds,
They shall suffer a swift execution.

First she picks up a cannister of something real sinister:
Her hairspray, and targets the rogue.
It stiffens the creature, who now looks like a feature
In Cosmo or Girlfriend or Vogue.

The next thing she chooses for those hairy losers
It also is quite close to hand.
And what could be meaner than her vacuum cleaner*
(A house system. Dunno the brand.)

It sucks up that beastie so quickly, at least he 
Won’t know which way’s out or is in.
Then if he survives all those tumbles and jives
He will find himself stuck in the bin.

Then, if he can climb through the dust and the grime,
Even find his way up through the system,
Can he simply pop out through the plug-in or spout?
No! Our Angie has way too much wisdom.

Sucked in through the nozzle, he’s in a shemozzle
Coz Ange has a follow-up weapon:
A spray of Mortein sucked right through the machine
Will make sure that come-backs can’t happen.*
And if that aint enough, while he’s lost in the fluff
And with chemical warfare as well,
Then Ange she will seal it with Glad Wrap, he’ll feel it,
Going to Spider-Heaven or Hell.

The fearsome tarantula quails before Angela.
Daddy’s long legs quake with dread.
The Huntsman so hairy thinks Angie’s too scary.
The redback runs back to his shed.

The moral is clear from this nursery rhyme here:
That bold Angie she aint no Miss Muffett.
So spiders, don’t dare to invade Angie’s lair
Or else you are all gonna snuff-it!

Tuesday 7 August 2018

The Lore of the Mother Olive Tree

The latest BardSong is taken from the "Wings in the Wind" series, called "Seasons of the Sun", to be published around Christmas time. This is a song that is sung by an eagle minstrel-maid on the occasion of the crowning of the High King of the Eyri wing-folk. 
It is part of the ceremony where the eagle chieftains lay down olive branches before the high king (the Khanrikhan), crush the olives for the oil to anoint him. They retain the remaining seed and plant it within their own lands.

The Mother-tree olive her head bowed in grief.
She bore us no fruit. She grew no new leaf.
For eyri slew eyri, and kin’s blood was shed 
Which tainted the earth where olive roots spread.

The tears of the clouds then the stains washed away.
‘Twas the grief that brought healing from Khan-harahe*.
The sun-spirit smiled upon Mother-tree’s crown
And bade her arise, no more to bow down.

The Mother-tree Olive now lifts up her green head.
The seasons of war are now past and are dead.
New shoots of bright hope and plump olives she bears
As all eyri wing-folk for peace now prepares.

But the seeds of new life, they must come with a cost.
The shedding of blood redeems that which is lost.
The oil is the blood within each olive’s veins
So let them be crushed until new life remains.

The life-giving oil within Mother-tree’s veins
It must be set free to anoint him who reigns.
The Khanrikhan mighty anointed shall be
To bring forth new life for all the Eyri.

A seed of new life to each chieftain is granted
And deep in the earth of their own lands is planted.
For peace is a burden, it is not born alone.
New life must be nurtured where-e’er it is sown.

*Khan-harahe - the Lord of Spirits