Holy Herbicide it's...JACK & THE GENESTALK

To her first born son spoke Jack’s mother
with as much gravitas as she could muster
crouched over compost micturating
explaining the benefits of crop rotating

Not for the Crown of England, lad
would I get rid of the cow
if I were your dad
but since he took off and had our money away
I’ve had sod all off the CSA

‘Sides the moral climate’s changed my sweet
We’re going free range and not doing meat

Jack loves his mother’s veganism now
so he's off to market with Daisy the cow,
to be passed on to a non-pesticide farmer
for as many loads of muck as Jack can garner

But the way to town is not what it seems
when a spindly old man offers Jack some genes
they’re not normal ones but special and magic
with eco-consequences, potentially tragic

Jack’s wet behind the ears and a wee bit green
But his mum’s not happy with the GM scene
and chucks the magic genes all over the floor
and the very next day, well, you know the score
there’s a bloody great beanstalk ascending to heaven
an irresistible attraction to a boy of eleven

Off the boy goes to the land of the Giants
Up to the castle bold and defiant
- I’ve got a penchant for tofu and yoga
You two are nothing but flesh-eating ogres.

The Giants got angry and growled at Jack
as the golden goose jumped up onto his back
- Fee Fi went Aventis
- Fo Fum went Monsanto
Who’d’ve thought we’d both end up in panto

Jack took flight straight down the stalk
as the golden goose began to flutter and squawk
it spilled the beans to the people’s press
about the insidious nature of the GM business
its plans to terminate seed germinations
in less well developed Third World nations
sowing things up for the agri-Giants
leaving poor farmers over-reliant
on sterile seeds at First world prices
instead of lentils, potatoes, red beans & rices

The twist in the tale for this lethal crop
happened as Jack got set for the chop
with the grim determination of guerrilla ecology
but the stalk dropped dead from termination technology

Aventis and Monsanto fell thereafter
And Jack & his mum lived organically ever after

The End.

www.monsantowatch.org.uk

CRUSTILOCKS AND THE THREE BEARS

Once three bears are out for a stroll
in the woods as you do
while the porridge goes cold
In wafts Crustilocks
A bird on the wing
Dreadlocks so golden
And a dog on string
No home of her own
No job either
Boots with no laces
And a bottle of cider

She's proper Hank Marvin
And so's her mongeral
As she checks out the porridge
With predictable doggeral
"This one's too hot!
This one's too cold!
Ah! This one's just right"
Wouldn't you know?

Choosing a seat
It's the same rigmarole
"This is too wee
This is too large
Oh! this one's just right
for my fussy hippy arse!"

'Cos Crustilocks has issues
with the number three
It's the bane if her life
She is OCD

She needs a bit of kip
to relieve her anxiety
But a trio of beds
It's just too much variety
"Which bed's too small?
Which bed's tool lumpy?
Is it bed number three
the one that's most comfy?
Oh! Sod this!" she frets
"I need some slumber"
as she crashes on a beanbag
and spins up a number!

The bears get back
and see Crustie's been unruly
The breakfast's buggered
And the place stinks of patchouli

So if you live in the woods
And your porridge is too hot
And you don't want your pad turned into a squat
And you've got sharp claws
And you're covered in fur

Maybe you shouldn't be living in a house anyway
Maybe you'd be all together better off in a cave.


The END.

The Pie-Eyed Piper

Once, up on charges I never did like going into, I left court with a non-custodial sentence on condition I go straight back to Hamelin. (On foot. No bus fare. )

I had played my way out with a jaunty tune once used to great effect in mediæval Germany, but was having trouble remembering the words. I needed the kids. I had a long walk ahead of me. Another problem. I wasn’t sure I could remember the way. It had been a long time. I have a childhood memory of an orange stone bridge. But in that version of the story, I’d been drawn as an anthropomorphic pussycat rather than a serious rat-catching feline, like I was on Wikipedia. And there were other issues. It was only 10:30 in the morning. And I wasn’t pie-eyed yet. But if I couldn’t recall the route, there’d be nothing for it than to hit the nearest tavern for inspiration. Then who knows. I could go all Geoffrey Chaucer, or else lie around getting tight all day “…drinking of strong wine as red as blood. Then ...talk and shout as a madman would.”

The first kid to approach did so with none of the menace that his hooded attire suggested. He was one of those lanky adolescents who’d sooner stand bent double like a fairy-tale old lady than deal with being the tallest kid on the manor, and all that implied. When he spoke, his voice, which had collapsed rather than broke, came from deep under the soles of his trainers. When he spoke. Often he didn’t. A case in point. I had to search for an appropriate opening gambit. With men my own age it was easier, especially with those in the trade. Shutting them up again was the thing. But what do you say to a fifteen-year-old when you’re in hooped earrings, gold-buckled boots and furry ears? The part-pirate/part Puss-In-Boots look. It’s not right. No self-respecting, jobbing, rat-catching journeyman musician should have to.

Anyway. In the end, Hiya? came out. I wished it hadn’t. It sounded so modern. I’d quite fancied a Forsooth yonder youth!

But wasn’t sure of the grammar.

- Wotcha, went the youth, sounding even less mediæval than me.

- I don’t suppose you know what’s supposed to happen?

- You blow. I follow innit? said the youth, as if it was the most obvious thing in the moral universe.
- Yeah but what about the rats?

- Don’t be a muppet? There were never rats. They put that in later.

Just then, my blackberry went off. An email.

From: The Appropriate Municipal Authorities To: The Pie-Eyed Piper
Date: circa 1284 Subject: rodent infestation

To contextualize the horrific event in relation to the child abduction, the chief executive’s office has implemented a whole raft of measures to move forward in the present situation vis-à-vis the rodent infestation in respect of all monies due to be remitted post-haste notwithstanding. A welter of highly improbable collocations of meaningless jargon will follow on from this memorandum of personal stagnation in the name of spiritual growth and economic decline at this time in the early 21st century. The implications of the Piper myth are after all widely known to have been googled both far and wide throughout the length and breadth of the kingdom by now sunshine. Consultancy Fee £5,000

- 5k! You’ve been had mate.

My young companion had it sussed even before I’d unconvoluted a word of it. He had his Babel Frog with him. A cheaper and quicker, black-market version of Babel Fish he’d downloaded as free source software directly into his memory stick. It read councilese like a charm. I immediately appointed him IT project management consultant.

- I’m PDA then? he asked.

- Sure. Yeah.

I’d ask him what PDA meant later. For now there was the recruitment problem. If the tunes weren’t working, then we needed a gimmick. Speed dating? Speed? A rave? Hooded tops with the Pie-Eyed Piper logo? Alcopops?

- I suggest we soujourn to the nearest inn for a brainstorming session. I’ll buy you a shandy. And you can pass out your illegally purchased cigarettes my young friend.

- Sorted, he replied, far too stereotypically for my liking.

THREE LITTLE PIGS

There were once three little pigs who each wanted to own a home of their own.

The first little pig used southern rock to make his home. He thought it would be sturdier than straw and longer lasting than concrete. Though he toiled hard at his three jobs, he could only afford a fixed-rate mortgage over 99 years at eight and half times his annual income. Soon he failed to make all his repayments.

One day the wolf knocked on his door.

- Who is it? asked the pig through the letter box.

- It’s wolf, little piggy. I’ve come to foreclose the loan on this property and blow your house down.

- You can’t do that. This is a home not an investment opportunity.

The wolf was immune to all appeals to reason. The logic of the financial system was as immutable as the hair on his chinny chin chin. So he huffed and he puffed until he repossessed the property.

The little piggy and his dependants went to stay with the second pig. This little piggy’s home was secured on a much more solid basis. Though he didn’t work as hard as the first pig, mummy and daddy pig had ponied up for a deposit on an endowment mortgage to give him a trotter up on the property ladder.

Presently, modernisation lead to liberalisation which was part and parcel of globalisation which in the end meant rationalisation. That is to say, the second pig lost his job. His partner lost her job. And his eldest lost his job. All three were re-employed on new contracts with longer hours for less pay.

One day, the wolf came a-calling.

- Who is it? asked the second pig through the letter box.

- It’s wolf, little piggy. I’ve come to foreclose the loan on this property and blow your house down.

- You can’t do that. This is a home not an investment.

But as with the first pig, he huffed and he puffed until he blew the house back onto the market.

The second pig and his family, along with the first pig and his kin, all moved in with the third little piggy, who lived in a kith in shared ownership house on the margins of the wood. The pigs got along fine, in spite of statutory overcrowding.

Unfortunately, the lack of liquidity in the banking system as a result of the sub-prime crisis had knock-on effects throughout the forest. Fairy tales for miles around were subject to its laws, the third pig included.

One day, the wolf came a-calling.

- Who is it? asked the third pig through the letter box.

- It’s wolf, little piggy. I’ve come to foreclose the loan on this property and blow your house down.

- You can’t do that. This is a home not an investment.

As with the first and second pigs, he huffed and he puffed until he blew the house back onto the market. And there the story ends, at least according to the original, translated by free-lance writer, Maureen Sturgeon, so she could pay her own home loan.

Unfortunately, work has been slack lately and Maureen’s not sure how long she can keep the wolf from her door, huffing and puffing notwithstanding.