Ursa? Posting a new thread in Critiques? What has the Word come to...?
On the Chrons, we often – well, once a year (per person) – celebrate birthdays. Some folk even mark Chroniversaries. But recently, a group of extremist ‘marks-its’ has declared that we ought to note a non-temporal event: the presence of three zeros at the end of one’s post count. This seemingly ridiculous campaign has now been joined by a judge (sorry, the judge) who is calling for due process.
What is a bear to do? Compromise, that’s what! As this is my 5000th noted post (and so not just any old thousandth), I thought I’d go along with this nonsense by posting some of my own.
I have posted here, in Critiques, as a noted post requires a forum in which the post count is incremented. My contribution is hardly a Workshop item (though a moderator may disagree) and furthermore, it’s a work in progress, so helpful comments are more than welcome.
Some here will have noticed that I occasionally indulge in word play. Usually this involves the meaning of words. However, the efforts of Messrs Frank Muir and Denis Norden on My Word! have had their effect on me, so I also like to indulge in some aural (or is that oral?) word-play.
The following is one result of this; its effect is better appreciated (if that is the correct word: you may wish that that ‘person from Porlock’ had visited me) if it’s read out aloud. (The presence of any sense in a sentence is purely accidental.)
“Insane Ado," bid Koo Black-Arne.
“A stake’s a pleasure—“ “Done!” decreed
Were-Alf, the secret river fan,
Threw taverns (‘Measure less for Man’),
Downed two: a sinless spree.
“So, twice fie!” smiles Offa. “Tiled ground,
With all sand flowers.” Were-Gerda frowned.
“And there were-gardens, fight with sinew-less frills
(Were-blossomed), many an intense-staring glee
To dare were-forests, and chant at the shills:
‘Elf holding Sonny’s pots of greener tea?’ ”
Below, Thadeep Roe's mantic spasm, witch-slanted:
Frown, then grin. He’ll award a sedan cover!
A salvage place! as holey and end-shunted.
Despair beneath a wain: in Moon was courted.
By one man's ailing Ford, heard Aemon's lover!
And formed this spasm with ease; lest Tor Moyle see Thing.
I see, fizzer-thin, plastic pants Fabrezing.
Almighty Fontaine momently unhorsed,
A mild loosed: swift half in a mitten burst.
Hugh's flag, men vault. Ed likes resounding ale;
Or Chough. Ygraine believes the Fresher's Tale.
Ahmed sees dancing frocks a-flounce. And, ever
Fit, young’n’up Moe met Lee (the scared-red reiver).
Five dials me, wondering with a dazed devotion:
“You would impale, then stake, Red River's fan?”
Enriched, the taverns (“Measure less to Man –
And Sandkins”) tumultuous, alive: “Less potion!”
And 'mid this ‘tomb’, lolled Koo, bladdered from fear;
Arne's vestal voices proffer, sighing: “Were-!”
The shade owed – offered – Home of Leisure:
‘Float amid, wade in, the waves’.
Were-wasp heard them mingle treasure:
“Form, thief! Outturn!” And, thee, craves.
It was a merry cull of read avise,
As Honey pleasured Ohm with Café dice!
Adam sells withered Ulster Myrrh
In a fish; and one's eye saw:
It was an Abyss, Indian-made.
Dan honoured Dulcie Moore. Sheep laid,
Swinging off Mount Tabor. Ah,
Could Irene vie with Esme?
Her sin: funny, handsome
(To Sacha). Deep delight: woodwind ‘E’.
Fat with muse, ‘Hick’ Lowden longed.
"Eye-wood built that home: Impaired
Slats! Onioned home! Whose caves suffice?
And hollow-hard sheds? Sieze them there!
Vandal!” should I cry, “Beware! Beware!
His lashing guys, he’ll float on air!”
Weaver circled, drowned his mice.
And closer ice, with all he’d read,
For aeons, Honeydew half-read,
And ranked them, Ilk of Para’s dice.
Many, many apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
On the Chrons, we often – well, once a year (per person) – celebrate birthdays. Some folk even mark Chroniversaries. But recently, a group of extremist ‘marks-its’ has declared that we ought to note a non-temporal event: the presence of three zeros at the end of one’s post count. This seemingly ridiculous campaign has now been joined by a judge (sorry, the judge) who is calling for due process.
What is a bear to do? Compromise, that’s what! As this is my 5000th noted post (and so not just any old thousandth), I thought I’d go along with this nonsense by posting some of my own.
I have posted here, in Critiques, as a noted post requires a forum in which the post count is incremented. My contribution is hardly a Workshop item (though a moderator may disagree) and furthermore, it’s a work in progress, so helpful comments are more than welcome.
Some here will have noticed that I occasionally indulge in word play. Usually this involves the meaning of words. However, the efforts of Messrs Frank Muir and Denis Norden on My Word! have had their effect on me, so I also like to indulge in some aural (or is that oral?) word-play.
The following is one result of this; its effect is better appreciated (if that is the correct word: you may wish that that ‘person from Porlock’ had visited me) if it’s read out aloud. (The presence of any sense in a sentence is purely accidental.)
“Insane Ado," bid Koo Black-Arne.
“A stake’s a pleasure—“ “Done!” decreed
Were-Alf, the secret river fan,
Threw taverns (‘Measure less for Man’),
Downed two: a sinless spree.
“So, twice fie!” smiles Offa. “Tiled ground,
With all sand flowers.” Were-Gerda frowned.
“And there were-gardens, fight with sinew-less frills
(Were-blossomed), many an intense-staring glee
To dare were-forests, and chant at the shills:
‘Elf holding Sonny’s pots of greener tea?’ ”
Below, Thadeep Roe's mantic spasm, witch-slanted:
Frown, then grin. He’ll award a sedan cover!
A salvage place! as holey and end-shunted.
Despair beneath a wain: in Moon was courted.
By one man's ailing Ford, heard Aemon's lover!
And formed this spasm with ease; lest Tor Moyle see Thing.
I see, fizzer-thin, plastic pants Fabrezing.
Almighty Fontaine momently unhorsed,
A mild loosed: swift half in a mitten burst.
Hugh's flag, men vault. Ed likes resounding ale;
Or Chough. Ygraine believes the Fresher's Tale.
Ahmed sees dancing frocks a-flounce. And, ever
Fit, young’n’up Moe met Lee (the scared-red reiver).
Five dials me, wondering with a dazed devotion:
“You would impale, then stake, Red River's fan?”
Enriched, the taverns (“Measure less to Man –
And Sandkins”) tumultuous, alive: “Less potion!”
And 'mid this ‘tomb’, lolled Koo, bladdered from fear;
Arne's vestal voices proffer, sighing: “Were-!”
The shade owed – offered – Home of Leisure:
‘Float amid, wade in, the waves’.
Were-wasp heard them mingle treasure:
“Form, thief! Outturn!” And, thee, craves.
It was a merry cull of read avise,
As Honey pleasured Ohm with Café dice!
Adam sells withered Ulster Myrrh
In a fish; and one's eye saw:
It was an Abyss, Indian-made.
Dan honoured Dulcie Moore. Sheep laid,
Swinging off Mount Tabor. Ah,
Could Irene vie with Esme?
Her sin: funny, handsome
(To Sacha). Deep delight: woodwind ‘E’.
Fat with muse, ‘Hick’ Lowden longed.
"Eye-wood built that home: Impaired
Slats! Onioned home! Whose caves suffice?
And hollow-hard sheds? Sieze them there!
Vandal!” should I cry, “Beware! Beware!
His lashing guys, he’ll float on air!”
Weaver circled, drowned his mice.
And closer ice, with all he’d read,
For aeons, Honeydew half-read,
And ranked them, Ilk of Para’s dice.
Many, many apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
