Puritan perversity

Phoney historians
 Have far too much to hide,
  Like laced up Victorians 
   Concealing fervent pride.


Useless song

              This song is quite tuneless               
Without reason at all,
 The rhyme is just as useless
 As cats wailing on the wall

              As caterwauling Catherine               
Cooking Brussel sprouts,
 Now banging on a tambourine
 To drown her husband's shouts

 Drowning with the vegetables
They have no taste at all.
Bellows are expendables
Like cats wailing on the wall

Yet bellows can be handy
                        To keep the fire alight.                         
The ardent are always randy
          In the darkness of the night          

If pure reason is crude madness
 Then this rhyme makes perfect sense,
 For laughter must mean sadness 
And calm then must mean tense

This song is then melodious
And truly sensible.
 The rhyme is simply glorious
Thus quite infallible

Hell then must be Heaven,
                                  Then best we should all fall,                                  
                                    For this verse is number seven                                  
                                         Green bottles on the wall                                       
                               Or perhaps there were eight                                
                                        And maybe even more,                                          
If true love is false hate,
The rich then must be poor.

A caterwauling feline
Sings a subtle melody,
To celebrate its nine 

  Lives, stuck up in a gum-tree.

Doggerel and image (double exposure- watercolour and Victorian photograph, c. 1980) © Mirino. September, 2013

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