To have mucked-up pig on my plate;
I apologise to him all the same
For his rather regrettable state.
But then, porridge is mucked-up oats,
Ant this pout was last evening’s kiss.
Every this is a mucked-up that
And remorse is just mucked-up bliss.
I can’t help myself mucking things up,
But who says that I stand on my own?
Passing years seem as busy as me,
For is not sand made of mucked-up stone?
But to broaden somewhat the discussion
Let’s consider the case now of man;
Man who normally ends up as dust,
For we don’t like to use him as ham.
All in all it seems perfectly fair
That, when mucked-up, man becomes dust
For is dust not first built into man
From a start which smacks slightly of lust?
But more seriously, though, this same dust
Is the matter and fire of the stars,
Although only through us does the dust
Know of tellies and soccer and cars.
Or, again, when it’s otherwise said,
We’re a bit like a star’s eyes and ears;
And alone midst the bits of the star
We’ve some clue what’s afoot in the spheres.
We seem useful small chunks of this star,
So the general nub of my rhyme
Is that despite the discomforts involved
Being mucked-up perhaps is quite fine.
But stay now; I have just heard it said
That black holes may be mucked-up stars,
And I trust that this ultimate change
On nobody’s conscience jars.
RAE, 22 November 1975
To have mucked-up pig on my plate;
I apologise to him all the same
For his rather regrettable state.
But then, porridge is mucked-up oats,
Ant this pout was last evening’s kiss.
Every this is a mucked-up that
And remorse is just mucked-up bliss.
I can’t help myself mucking things up,
But who says that I stand on my own?
Passing years seem as busy as me,
For is not sand made of mucked-up stone?
But to broaden somewhat the discussion
Let’s consider the case now of man;
Man who normally ends up as dust,
For we don’t like to use him as ham.
All in all it seems perfectly fair
That, when mucked-up, man becomes dust
For is dust not first built into man
From a start which smacks slightly of lust?
But more seriously, though, this same dust
Is the matter and fire of the stars,
Although only through us does the dust
Know of tellies and soccer and cars.
Or, again, when it’s otherwise said,
We’re a bit like a star’s eyes and ears;
And alone midst the bits of the star
We’ve some clue what’s afoot in the spheres.
We seem useful small chunks of this star,
So the general nub of my rhyme
Is that despite the discomforts involved
Being mucked-up perhaps is quite fine.
But stay now; I have just heard it said
That black holes may be mucked-up stars,
And I trust that this ultimate change
On nobody’s conscience jars.
RAE, 22 November 1975