With April about to end on something of a wet note, I thought it would be interesting to see what some of our greatest poets might have made of the recent weather. Through my spirit guide, Bob, I have been fortunate enough to channel the following works. You’re welcome.
Whan that aprill with his shoures great
The droghtes of march hath ended in a spate,
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
(so priketh hem nature in hir corages)
To ferne shores, kowthe in sondry londes,
The sondry hermes luggages in hond,
And specially from every shires ende
Of engelond to gatywicke they wende.
Befil that in that seson on a day
In gatywicke at the wytherspoones I lay,
At nyght was come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a henne partye
That toward fair menorca wolden flye
Alle clad in shirtes of pinken vileynye
On which there was first write debbye
And after does doubles in letters glitterye
Now have I told you soothly, in a clause,
Th’ estaat, th’ array, the nombre, and eek the cause
Why that assembled was this compaignye
In gatywicke at this gentil hostelrye
And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye
Ye care namoore than doth a popinjay
So now is not the tyme my tale to telle
And ye maun look away, saved by the belle.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In Milton Keynes did Cameron
A stately water-park decree,
Where once a lot of buses ran
On routes inscrutable to man
(And pensioners went free).
So twice five miles of flooded ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were countless rides with sinuous thrills,
Where threw up several hoodie-wearing thugs;
And here were wardens ancient as the hills,
Enforcing the park’s ban on Class A drugs.
But oh ! that deep flume ride whose route was slanted
Down the artificial ski slope t’was athwart !
Ten pounds a ride ! the children were enchanted
Although the Harry Potter Broomstick ride was vaunted
By JK Rowling’s agent and his minions from Hogwarts !
And on this ride, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
Were all the kids who’d wet their pants, still breathing,
But only just: a drop of thirty feet had caused
Their bladders, spleens and colons to divorce !
I paddle through each chartered Mall,
Near where the chartered Thames did flood,
And thank the Lord that I am tall,
And not susceptible to mud..
In every shop on Oxford Street
In every beauteous boutique built,
In each display that seeks to treat,
The major theme this year is silt:
How the Standard-vendor’s cries
Are lost amid the surging swell,
And Cockneys heave collective sighs,
Their whelk-stalls fathoms deeper dwell,
But most, through coursing streets I hear
How useless, ‘cross the nation,
The local flood defences are
When faced with inundation
I wandered lonely as a boat
That drifts on tides oe’r vale and hill
When all at once I saw, afloat,
A truck stacked with Viagra pills:
Alongside speed, betwixt some “E”s,
They must have been worth twenty Gs.
I tried to lasso, with a line,
The truck, ‘fore it could drift away:
It bobbed and weaved — the metal swine! —
It took the best part of the day:
At last I had it bang to rights,
And none too soon, t’was nearly night.
I paddled hard against the flow
But Newton’s First Law spoiled my dash:
So with the truck I had to go
Or loose my line and lose the stash;
I mulled–and mulled–but only thought
What wealth the drugs had nearly brought:
Now oft, when in my boat I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
I really wish I could untie
And let the drugs escape for good;
But then my brain with horror fills,
I’m so addicted to these pills.