Oh, for a muesli
to set your bowels on fire!
Said Henry V
as he roused the troops.
To be or not to be knotted,
that is the question
thought Hamlet.
Whether tis nobler
to be outta your mind,
or in your right mind.
To suffer the groans
the deadliest of troughs
of ye critics,
or to take up jokey novelty thangs
and banish them.
That is the question.
To die to sleep.
To wake and find you’re still dead.
There’s the rub,
for who would bear these white pages
of dribble without the chance
of a rib-tickler around the corner,
or worse even
Loisseau around the corner.
And so from the tiniest of seeds
a mighty oak is once again grown,
it flourishes till the winter
then looseth its leaves.
But yet forsooth all is not lost
till the fat lady singest.
