acknowledgement to Edward Lear)
How daunting to know Mr Weir
who pisses in basin and sink.
People think he is cranky & queer -
and he no longer cares what they think.
He lives without television,
and showers every fifty-one weeks.
The ambitious he views
and Normals as dangerous freaks.
Two persimmon-trees grew in his orchard.
He makes vinegar, yogurt and curds.
He can't bear to think of beasts tortured,
and is bad at mincing his words.
He never had any ambition
except to be quiet and free.
He has long enjoyed this condition
and for long has been learning to be.
His favourite music is raga
(though silence is what he likes best),
his favourite book is Njál's Saga.
His life is a quest-palimpsest.
He once went to live with the Pygmies
but just couldn't cope with the heat.
He flirts with asocial stigmas
and was sent to gaol as a treat.
He's impulsive (as well as transparent)
and loves to be left on his own.
He makes his dislikes too apparent,
and has half a wish to be known.
He has a long beard & short fingers,
thin body and spathulate thumbs.
He longed to be one of the singers
and failed to be one of the dumbs.
He's pretty ashamed to be human
and looks forward to being dead.
He sometimes cooks spinach with cumin
and is happiest going to bed.
The joys of his life have been doggy.
Though dogless for many a year,
he now is contentedly foggy.
It's best not to know Mr Weir!
The Honest Ulsterman is or was a highly-considered
which published a few of my poems - but only those that I said were