In the wee small hours, when one’s writerly powers
Have abandoned one deep in the lurch
When the week’s submission won’t come to fruition
And you’ve nothing to say, but need the pay
There begins a frenzied search
In the clear light of day the selection of prey
Involves something akin to precision
But as hours unwind, so long and unkind
And rats from the park knife cats in the dark
One is clutched by cold indecision
For instance: If it’s all going to rhyme, then what sort of time
Will this ragtag orchestra keep?
Metronomic or frantic? Clipped or pedantic?
Will it chime like bells, or bleat like sheep?
And how many times will they tolerate rhymes
Like ”keep” and ”sheep”, which are lazy and cheap?
And there’s still that ”for instance” hanging up there
With its trailing colon looking (dare one try ”bare”?)
Internal rhyme or infernal crime? Ah, they shall be couplets
As playful as pupplets, and bonny and gay
And rhyming A-B-B-A
Or not. Such is the state of the sleep-deprived pate
As it gropes through the tropes, in search of fire
From heaven, the news that alone can leaven
The hunger for commentary, the thinker’s desire
That only the middle-bit of the paper can sate
Come. Get settled before readers are nettled
(I thought you had scrapped as intrinsically crap
This relentless adherence to rhyme?)
Consider the week that has just occurred
And prey on its politics of the absurd
And watch them guide their wandering herd
Through, not around, their latest turd
(Relentless, maybe, but there are fiercer crimes;
I think I will scrap them another time)
And out it all floods, carrying diamonds and duds
For Lekota’s troops, war is hell
These bloody Casspirs just won’t sell
The Australians have won the cricket
Manto’s emerged from under a thicket
Somebody watched Raid on Entebbe
And decided to land on Jackie Selebi
Schabir Shaik is bound for the slammer
”Can’t touch this!”: should have listened to MC Hammer
Meanwhile: Msholozi isn’t campaigning
Neither deigning nor feigning
(to save his name from further staining)
To do any explaining about which mshini
He’d like to fire, which populist genie
He’d rub to raise presidential ire
Bring me my gun, and the big dog’s head!
Bring me jelly babies and breakfast in bed!
From Washington it’s the same old drek
In Iraq they’re stretching Saddam’s neck
Will Iran get a nuclear bomb?
Will Paris Hilton get a new Toy Pom?
But in the end there’s one celeb who never fades away
His methods may change and his power may ebb
But he’s always been here to stay
The ultimate Survivor, he trains no Apprentices,
And when you’re fired, you’re fired like clay
In a pine box with brass parentheses
Yes Death’s come calling with regularity appalling
Just months ago it caught in its jaws
An Australian named Steve whose skill was to cleave
To the backs of those varmints, which end up as garments
In expense ladies’ department stores
With a penchant for ”Crickey!” (and a clearly cracked psyche)
Steve wooed beasts whose ugliness was Cretaceous
And whose claims to cuddliness were mendacious
But one living fossil escaped his spell
And now Steve Irwin never will
Hunt the Wilderness for the Groot Krokodil
For one of them’s in heaven, and t’other’s in hell.