An ode to summer

 

'Sumer is icumen in Lhude sing cuccu!'

Let us try for a moment to break away, if not from human folly, certainly from the turgid considerations of planetary turmoil, from treachery to tragedy, cupidity to crisis and catastrophe. Let us try to aspire to greater heights, to look up and admire the cumulous clouds of summer gloriously billow against the azure skies. Let us then gently close our eyes, the lids of which are warmed and lit up red light district madder against the sunlight, and be transported by the wings of art.

Summer indeed has come in, despite the lack of loud cuckoos in this neck of the woods, so let us continue to pause and ponder a moment on how best nature's warmest gift should be celebrated, particularly in the north.

One casts one's mind in abandon allowing thoughts to fly about and pose as briefly as if they were delicate butterflies resting an instant upon dewy toadmerdwort before disenchantedly fluttering off once more.
And thus with ease the mind flits over the rich, dung hills of our venerable forefathers, to inevitably perch itself upon the great, noble and wiggéd head of Kashereapes himself. And needless to add, this is one of his finest nonsets of them all.

Shall I compare thee to a London fog?
Thou art more misty and more troublesome.
Rough winds do shake the starlings out of trees,
And England's summers are too cool to ripen dates.
Sometime too hot I soak in steaming bath,
And then often seems my addled mind more dim,
And every hair that's left would gladly grow,
If 'twas my nature it to never trim;
But thy eternal strands will never freeze
Nor should you loose possession of your mind,
Nor need I brag about my shapely knees
When eternal lines to prose thou would'st here find.
So long as men can score and win one's heart,
So long lives this which isn't worth a fart.

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With apologies to Shakespeare

 Image from the 13th century manuscript of the 'Cuckoo Song' (Summer has arrived). With thanks to Wikipedia. Parody and text © Mirino (PW) July, 2009