The New Roundel No.4

The New Roundel No.4

When the sound goes


We all hear it,


To do a dance,

You know the steps,

Messire Curiosity

Don’t kill the cat!

Go along my song,


That’s it!

You starling,

One, two, three,


Then in the air,

Spin around,

On me now,



A little song goes,

A looooong way,

So much for all that,

So and so,

Such and such,

This a one,

That a one,

No no,


Know you’re moving,

One, two, three,

My stars!

Cordially we meet,

Eyes up,

A song!

Land where spirits

Come alive,

The monsta-happy flick,

He’s jumping in his pants

Far too small for a crawler,

The eyes wide are twisting,

Now we’re really moving,

Hand in hand,

Hips lock,

Heads shake,

The sweat and shiver,

Now you’re on the stage!

Fair game, lights on!

Couldn’t you shake?

Oh! the tremulous dance,

One, two, three…




I want to say that you

Have a way to go,

If your heading


Stop a while and rest,

Much better is the road

With a full stomach,

Oh! One, two, three,

Better yet will you meet

The purple hairy monsta

When you can know his beard,

Grab it as it shakes and wags,

No, no, make it a yes!

Take that potion with you,

In the box there,

He’ll do a spin that captivates,

Oh! One, two, three,

There’s the rub,


Could you spare a nickel?

My purse is light,

Maybe a little cash

Could go a long way,

Oh! One, two, three,

I saw you in the corner

Of my eyelid,

You couldn’t have found

Any better marble,

I know he’s a bit dirty,

So…wash him with some wine!


Now I’m real luny loo for it,

The Wolfman’s wool all itchy,

In late evening he comes in

With no coat to stay warm,

Milady, don’t wonder at my

Hairiness, nor at these fangs!


But if you’re in a tussle,

I know a trick,

The Old Master in law says:

Just say Bah!


Bah! Bah!

Now we’re going somewhere…



Simon De Montfort

Simon De Montfort

At the battle of Muret

He slew the traitor flock,

Then again at Toulouse

He did well to take the cross,

At divers places throughout,

He used what tools he had,

Hacking down those lazy louts,

His sword was for Maria,

All good works do come from Her,

He sang the Culpa Mea

Before the battle ramparts,

By fighting he did save us

From pain in many ways,

The sword of justice stung,

Now others live their days,

Before the battle walls,

The men did shout and cheer,

‘Come, Holy Spirit,’ rang in thieving ears,

Many were there who did take up the task,

Battling daily to slay the basilisk!


They call me El Gringo

They call me El Gringo

Vale, me digan que soy un gringo,

Pero tu no sabes este situación,

Soy de California, naci en el norte,

Entonces, cual es mi identificación? 

Mi padre es de Nuevo York,

Mi nombre es de Irlanda, 

Estoy un poquito confuso, verdad?


Vale, me digan que soy un gringo,

Pero soy de una colonia de España, 

Entonces mi conozco el rey de Aragon,

Era un rey de España muy fuerte,

Cuando me digan que soy un gringo,

No se, porque soy de California.

Soy un nativo de California,

Entonces que dices?

Tu no sabes me identificación.

Tu no se cual parte o país,

Entonces es mejor que soporta,

Cuando ellos digan cosas malo,

Sorporta, cuando ellos están enojado,

Soporta, cuando ellos no saben la historia.

Soporta, por Dios protege a sus hijos.


Vale, me digan que soy un gringo,

Si, así soy un gringo,

Pero tu no sabes nada sobre mi,

Soy de California,

Naci en Santa Cruz,

Vive en San Jose,

Estudie a Santa Clara,

Soy un Catolico,

Creo un Jesu Christi,

Entonces tu no sabes cuando yo digo:

Soy un nativo de California.

Asi, estoy no confuso, es la verdad,

Soy un nativo de California,

Pero el gente no sabe este,

Ellos miran a mi cara y digan:

El es un gringo y no sabes nada,

Pero estoy un nativo de California,

Naci en Santa Cruz,

Vive en San Jose,

Estudie a Santa Clara,


Vale, me digan que soy un gringo,

Mis ojos son azules,

Mi cara es blanco,

No tengo familia en Mexico,

Todos tienen una cita con el Juez,

Así: Estoy de California,

Una colonia de Espana, 

Sabes el rey de Aragon?

Se llama Chaime lo Conqueridor,

El se gano parte de Francias,

Tu hables Catalan?

Si, mi nombre es de Irlanda 

Pero soy de California,

Soy un nativo del norte.

The Book of Nothing

The Book of Nothing

As I sat mulling over what best to do with myself, I decided it was most pertinent to begin another book, lest I perish by perilous idleness. Although, I want to bring you something truly useful; So I turned and tossed, hoping to call to mind something you might find worth knowing. I’m in a most peculiar situation, since men and women today, and I’m sure you already know this fact, know absolutely everything there is. What more could one possibly add? You’ve given me quite the challenge! Given my odd situation, I decided it best to write a book about absolutely nothing. Thus, my reader, I pray you read along as I tell you nothing at all, where you will surely learn less than if you dunked your head in an ice bin.

Here begins the Book of Nothing…

Lemon stew is a great resource to assuaging lechery. Boils happen in two ways; the first is on the face and the second in a cauldron. Carrots are living beings, with thoughts and souls just like humans. Golden nuggets can be found near the trash can. Bedsheets are not removable. Blues music sounds like farts. Berries poop, and it is sometimes black, other times red, and always yellow. Talking to fruit will give you better eyesight if you eat the leafy part first. Walls don’t collapse unless you clap four times and spin round at the doorway. Flowers die even though you think they aren’t breathing differently. Dwarves who play on harps do well. Elephant horns summon silk beds and sprinkling fountains that heal. A giant can be slain by tying a rope around his feet and yanking really hard. The well you jumped in leads to an underground city where the ordinary people will think you a giant. If you throw somebody to the wolves he perishes in the hills. Only in rivers can one truly sleep because the water makes the blood flow better. Don’t ever ask for Morgan’s help, for she knows only how to pluck your hairs out one by one. Reversals are concrete. Wheels only roll when on fire. Partridges can only be eaten if you start with the ass. The Hippopotamus was invented by Persians who needed a source of entertainment. Exercise was created during a case between God and the wealthy; the latter greatly desired to negotiate the holding of perpetual feasts; God shined His light, and that same day the Saints were discovered too. A cave mansion can be used for siestas as long as there is enough firewood and the town unicorn has donated her teeth to be used for mushing seed. Bartholemew died in 1162 during the battle of Segranti, his cause of death is unknown. Brother Terrance tried to burrow a hole in the ground. After using many types of picks and shovels, a large rock was hurled at him, crushing his face into a thousand pieces; a lot of mud was subsequently piled on his head, and he was not given a Christian burial. Since the light from the lantern wasn’t working, he did not see the Ogre in front of him. The basilisk is not to be feared unless you are carrying any one of the following items: A one hundred dollar bill, rubies, elixirs to poison your husband, aforesaid unicorn teeth, golden spurs, latex condoms, golden thread, an ivory comb, buckwheat powder, or a rifle from the revolutionary war. This last item is especially condemning. If you want to know more, ask the basilisk. If you want to live, carry a nail gun. Ballistas are convenient for hurling monkey poo and rat guts; the smell alone will make a seven-year siege end in a fortnight. If you want to piss off a gnome, ask for his beard to use as a spice; they hate that. A foreign language can be learned if you do a handstand inside the capitol building of the native speaking people for a full minute without being thrown out, photographed, or tackled by a New Zealand rugby player. To slay a cobra you must fan your crotch while screaming Ave Maria ten times. If the Cobra is far away it doesn’t matter. A Chinaman could kill a diamondback in Arizona if he only followed this instruction. You lied about your favorite color, and this murdered the worm in that city you’ve never been to. Crunchy snow is good for detecting sparrows in summer. Goggles are worn when a master breeds his goats and hens since it gets quite bloody. Money is completely imaginary. In the Southwestern hemisphere, they have blue alabaster plants that grow in worship temples, though they melt them to make bullets that are installed in the eyes of blind men. Ten isn’t really a number. You have to look at the back of your hand; I won’t tell you what for, that is a capital offense in Heaven. Things one needs keys for are temporary, just as things that eat melons every day. Bartholemew was boiled while sleeping in a river near the giant’s cave, and eleven goblins cooked his flesh while sixty-two maids wept for his soul at the cobra fountain. Wombat turds are a tremendous resource in negotiating treaties. The two chief claimants are made to chew from the same turd; the nuttier mouthful gets to set the initial terms. Inspiration is possibly gained by eating honeyed earwigs. Sniffing highlighter can also bring on a similar inspiration, but I don’t recommend it unless you like frequent visits from soiled Goblins. Water contains elements that are not to be consumed unless you find yourself in a jungle surrounded by ill-famed white tigers; as a last ditch effort for survival, I then recommend onto you this perilous substance for drinking. Commonly called the rose, it is much thornier than one originally thinks.

Thus ends the Book of Nothing. If I continued any more, I fear this little book may become a book about something so I will stop now. Besides, I fear I may lose your interest if I continue droning on. Peace be with you, fair reader!

A poem…

Abelard or Saint Bernard

Dogs hide their souls

In wells,

They bark and bite

In the cold alley,

The pack scruffy

Animates the charge.

Many are the kinds,

To be an Abelard or

Saint Bernard,

A question life asks

Is often too hastily


An old greybeard

Won’t know it,

Give a crozier rap on his

Tombstone doorway,

Summon the sages

From Navarre to

Galilee to give

Good counsel.

They’ll mull it over

Like a bin of oats,

And when it’s well

Chewed, you’ll

See a gold statue

Out the oven,

That old furnace


When the show ends

I’ll be much better

Informed to say.


A poem

 Everybody wants to be master of the universe

Many little lords say on,

They come riding with the sun,

Such and such and so and so,

Here they come and here they go,

As did Seabiscuit in his season fair,

Lenders throwing coins up in the air,

Even fortunes panties played truth and dare,

All the poor boys stopped to stare,

They waited, as the best horse always falls,

Pride is a ruthless bear that mauls,

Everyone wants to be master of the universe.



Seas of servants obey contritely,

To lords they aren’t a sou, by almighty,

These masters have goblets of bezants,

They give orders to that army of ants,

While the worthy endure groaning hunger,

Frighting that failings will turn them bugger,

All that toil, and for what?

You gave a fatted lord a bigger gut!

Everyone wants to be master of the universe.

Thick ranks of men die in flocks,

They know well the frost on weathercocks,

They take upon themselves divers maladies,

For that skunk who knows only frailties,

Soft hands kept warmed, for the other death,

Beastly beauty cannot hide nor rest,

Gladly does the good man cut his own head,

Little does he care to wind up dead,

And if they shack up with a strumpet,

God knows, she can well play that trumpet,

I give my alms freely to know his end,

Whom she with no honor forgot to mend,

What glory! The man who plays the play,

Suddenly he is more gold than grey,

Prattling muse, give my old son a cookie,

It was my first love, that man that took me,

Give the gossips something to talk of,

By St. Denis and the Sweet Maid above,

I wouldn’t dare give them a mirror,

To make wolves eat their own error,

Everyone wants to be master of the universe.



This is glory, that mountain peak of desire,

Hearts more burnt than St. Anthony’s fire,

It is easy to forget, a dread to remember,

This season of lent, well after December:

Misfortune was the bird that raised me,

That goon from her talons dropped me,

The fatter I was not when lost in the ocean,

Wading through white caps, sick by motion,

In the gem chamber one forgets the streets,

For in the streets there are no tasty meats,

No precious dainties to call by the bell,

Nor is there a dame to comfort the swell,

Everyone wants to be master of the universe.

Recall the apostles who went door to door,

They had not riches nor so much as a cord,

It was God who armed their backs,

He did by them well, warding off attacks,

Meat pies and strumpets in divers kinds,

And all the treasure below the skies,

Could not do so much as a twirl,

His infinite wisdom is compared to a churl,

Everyone wants to be master of the universe.

I’ve tried all the drugs that wizards contrive,

I’ve had the mistress from over seas wide,

I listened to the owl murmur black spells,

She turned me to a wolf who ran the dell,

A galley full of treasure is emptied by storm,

Venus made me wish I never was born,

For all the honor I gained by good works,

Was lost out at sea, it pains me and hurts,

She offered no Paradise or comfort at best,

Not even a morsel of bread or a mess,

Gossips mocked and laughed to say:

“I told you so, he isn’t worth hay!”

Cackle and gape you wrinkled fools!

She that bangs her head falls from the stool,

St. Denis, loose an arrow for that gizzard,

I saw the storm and wept at the blizzard,

When I granted that woman my love,

I did it in earnest, by God up above,

Wo! She loved not me but shiny treasures,

Guile so sweet assuaged my half measures,

Before that, I was the worthiest mite,

From here to Babylon; the colorful kite,

How worthy are they charred by false law,

Bones cleaned in yellow teeth and the maw,

She said she loved me but it was a lie,

Even the harlot’s intent is clear as open sky,

What irony when honor is involved,

Those most discreet are magically absolved,

Not at the end! We all come to judgment,

So say your paternosters or be bludgeoned,

Everyone wants to be master of the universe.



I am a liar, a fool, and a lovesick slave,

But I don’t kill or cuss at any knave,

I think the poor are the best presidents,

They put God first as a precedence,

Grab on the prow and cling to the mast,

It is said he who is first is last,

And she that goes last is first,

Sickeningly purged my thoughts did burst!

By gale and winding wind was I thrown,

Not by an island where Sirens made home,

A faithless girl, Anaconda, sucked my life,

Now I’m worn out with constant strife,

But it wouldn’t do to take revenge,

I appeal to the court, have at her, avenge,

If my case is heard, they can place the fault,

I’ll prove it by combat, as a hawk molts,

Although God is the final judge, in faith,

He visits the sick in the guise of a wraith,

I wander at stars so sublime far above,

Take my sword and take my glove,

It is a miracle I’m not dead or in jail,

If God is with us, let us set sail!

Everyone wants to be master of the universe.



There is one master in this world of games,

He gathers our bones and other remains,

Now love gives me hope when it’s too late,

Burdened I am with cases of estate,

How sweet she is at my demise,

A kind of love I frankly despise,

In the seat of honor I had aforetime,

Eager jealousy sour like the lime,

Gossips hacked me like hyenas,

Just as wolves ate alive fair Remus,

It was so familiar, the bitter gall,

I didn’t see the pit before the fall,

I even thought Seine water sweet,

Cow dung was my salted meat,

Everyone wants to be master of the universe.



If you compel me to keep singing I will,

Although it pains me to go to this mill,

Spilling my heart’s contents I do mourn,

Not ever so bitter a drink was there born,

This false ‘true love’ a lie that ruined me,

Heartlessness is her name, my bride to be,

Even Harlots are clear about the rules,

No jape or joke to beguile the noble fool,

Everyone wants to be master of the universe.



I will be buried in Paris: please make a note,

No lady croons so sweet, nor harp or rote,

There isn’t a woman from here to Cathay,

Who talks as sweet as the Parisian maid,

By St. Genevieve, and all I possess,

To save those girls I would fight to oppress,

I want my soul to always hear them croon,

May they one day grant me my boon,

The world ends when they stop dreaming,

All that is forever was by her seaming,

Everyone wants to be master of the universe.