rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

The More Things Change....

Descending, the full moon enters a haze which then flares, engulfing the west in pearly luminance, silhouetting the pines and the half-bare oaks as though before a cool fire. The air, damp wood scented and brisk, barely stirs, but the night is filled with the sound of leaves despite the lack of wind. Always, one or two are falling, hitting the ground with soft clicks. This I hear in the front yard. When I go onto the back porch, I hear more loudly the futile wingbeats of three large black bugs which have trapped themselves in the sink. I have no idea what kind of bugs they are, or why they are unable to fly out of the sink when they clearly had to have flown into it to begin with, but this happens every year. I they are not rescued, they die in the sink. This event is so commonplace that the cat no longer shows any interest in the bugs and their struggle whatsoever. I guess they aren't tasty. I can sort of identify with those bugs. And I probably wouldn't be very tasty either.

November is a strange time.



Guy Fawkes Sunday Verse



Traditional Rhyme



Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,
'twas his intent
to blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!

A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o' cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!



The Fifth of November

Anonymous Catholic Verse


There's a plot to beguile
An obstinate isle.
Great Britain that heretic nation.
Why so slyly behav'd
in the hopes to be saved
By the help of the curs'd reformation.

There's powder enough
And combustible stuff
In thirty and odd trusty barrels,
We'll send them together
The Lord can tell whither
And decide at one blow all their quarrels.

When the King and his son
And the parliament's gone
And the people are left in the lurch
Things will take their old station
In the curs'd nation-
And I'll be the head of the Church.
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