Lisping the Lucid Light

The Ballad Of Little Noddy

The Ballad Of Little Noddy

for Little Noddys everywhere

Up the magic mountain
Down the rushy glen
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men.

Little Kants and Hegels
Socrates' and Platos
Pissing in our garden
Eating our tomatos.

Preaching their philosophy
To prove their very piss is
The cockle shell theosophy
Of Hermes Trismigistus.

Once there was a little boy
Little Noddy was he name
Who held on to his little joy
Beneath his counterpane.

What a pretty wanton boy
Slaughtering the flies
And spattering the bourgeoisie
In their dogmatic stys!

What a brave young Nimrod!
Who with lists prefers to hunt
For Consciousness and Cabbages
Coelacanths and Cunt.

Vile rumor states our lad avers
All three the same dish
But Rumor's wrong: "I much prefer
The last sans consciousness.
I am a carefree deliquant

Will take a cabbage everyday
Though Coelacanths are elegant
When in a family way.
I prefer the simple vegetable

Much before another.
Its inner silk suggestable
Of my late lamented mother.
Picture a silken draped boudoir

And Daddy behind the arras
The cabbage in a pink peignoir
And certain scents from Paris
Daddy chained and gagged. O! Rare!

And a slit for him to see
And another in the cabbage dear
Just big enough for me.
Then I caress the vegetable

And read her Havelock Ellis
And poetry pansexual
Of the dying on the trellis
Of many a time-blown rose

Wailing for her demon lover
And many a well-blown nose
Ever waiting for another
Finger than the one it loves!

A nose whose passion lingers
Stars above -- though penetrated nightly
By the finger it abhors.
Until the turf lies lightly, lightly

And the doors, the golden doors
Of Eternity open!
And the dear digit it adores
d
e
s
c
e
n
d
All Beatrice to its bosogger.
And then I take my daddy's Luger
This is how my Daddy wooed her
And then, and then! I leap! I leap!
Ravaging that cabbage
With a passion so steep
It o'ertops Dante's!
And then I calm her
With a murmured verse von
Jeffery Dahlmer.
Daddy thinks the cabbage mother
Daddy's always getting thinner
Though every night he has another
Piece of mother for his dinner."
You can see that little Noddy
Had quite eccentric passions
Perhaps banal to anybody
Who keeps up with the fashions:
Vile poetry and matricide
A bit of old Jocasta
A weariness of time and tide
And, to make the moment last
A buring in a gemlike flame
Of all of his relation.
But he is like the gentle rain
The leaders of a nation
Direct ten million tons of bombs
Upon the place beneath
Bunkers, bridges, dads, and moms!
Roll me over Lethe!
Our little Noddy after all
Is rather ineffectual
His sins are white and do appall
But, at least, not intellectual.
All passion spent he rests his cheek
And recites a soothing psalm
And, perhaps, he dreams of leeks
But the vision of napalm
Is sugar plums and marzipan
To those across the sea
Who calculate the body count
Sing "Nearer my God to thee.
Nearer to thee Lord!" Then they
Adjust their calculations
And (100,000 say)
Are gone
gone
gone
Quite away.
And then, they face the tribulations
Of dog shit in Harvard Yard.
(Professor Booby's Lhaso Apso again)
Many miles away
The General says:
"Men, here is you mission. We want numbers!
Arise ye nations from your dogmatic slumbers!!
In a geste most incandescent
The jungle algebras luminescent.
The mother, child, and sturdy peasant
All become quite deliquescent.
Flowing in a fiery stream!
Flowing in a golden dream!
Till they arrive at Harvard Yard
Where Booby thinks it a canard
"That's not my dog's shit in Harvard Yard.
Not my dog's shit in Harvard Yard.
The priest, the King, the simple clown.
Intellectual vileness trickles down.
As does this verse. O comic Muse
Make my bowels and bladder swell!
Jesus Christ, I've paid my dues.
Deliver me to Infidel.
Who is not a little Noddy.
Little Noddy's anybody.
Souls of poets dead and gone
Be sure to keep your condoms on.
Be advised your lissome muse
Won't be as prankish as she used.
And though, perhaps, your stiffened chillness
Will seem to some a formal stillness
And the worm your daily wage is:
You'll still be better than John Cage is.
Ah, she's back. My verse becomes more regular.
Except for that last line. A rhyme! A rhyme!
Hey, Tim the keg-u-la
You bought is all drunk up.
That's a lie.
He isn't even here.
Hasn't been for a year.
I loved him best.
We were the "Owl Oak Press"
He had three wives and a silver star.
And killed himself in Carmel Ca.
1/1/91
Car
Car

Car
the cars said.

Did it the American way. In his car with a .45.
The word I want to rhyme is "alive."
Alive! Alive O!
Silver stars, and wars and wars,
And pretty maids all in a row.
O Tim! You lost your town the race.
But at least you found a parking space.
Alas, poor Tim is not no body
Let's go back to Little Noddy.
One night little Noddy
Maddened by the crowds
Who danced the limbic limbo
Neath the Magellanic clouds
Went up the magic mountain
And down the rushy glen
And by St. Tommy's fountain
He met the little men!
O see their vile symposium
Underneath the trees
A cacophile colloquium
Of venal venomy.
Buboes like bijous!
Transcendent logorrheas
Blood or beetlejuice
On their paideas.
Socrates accouchant
Plato on his knees
Hegel only kegeled
While Kant begged, "please."
Poor panting pooh bahs
And moon-botched mullatos
Hear the ontic ohh ahs
In their secret grottos
The very meagre spewing
The sudden going slack
The strangled senseless mooing.
I want my money back.
Poor Noddy thought them pixies
A typical cathexis
With many a cunning lick he
Sought logosrhythmic nexus.
"O fondle all my fabula
Make my bowels go whoosh
Bite my incunabula
Gerbil my cartouche!"
They crowned him then with laurel
And pulled his undies down
And had a little quarrel
About quintessence brown
And who would have the precedent
And who would wait behind
But in concord incrudescedent
They chose symbol over sign.
First the gave him No-Doz
And then they bound his arms
Then spoke to him of Logos
And of his manly charms
Then they put him in a toga
And in the best Platonic forms
Whispered he was deathless
And buggered him in swarms
Drizzled him with powdered gold
And decked his dick with lapis
Diddled with his tiny fold
And called him "Dear Priapus."
Filled his behind with sea dark wine
And then they crammed the ice in
"How do you feel?" "Why I feel fine,
Rather Dionysian."
Then they took a silver spoon
And scraped him out all hollow.
He laughed and bayed right at the moon
"I feel just like Apollo."
Then they stroked his little bum
(It really was quite flexible)
And gashed a hole between his legs
Until he wasn't very sexable.
See the timeless golden dial!
Hear the crystal spheres!
See the unmoved crocodile
Cry his pearly tears!
The good, the true, the beautiful
A frenzy fine and flighty
And Noddy shouts, "O! take me! Do!
I feel like Aphrodite."
Plato did and him y-thrid.
"Dear master, are you peeing?"
"It's just the God you silly sod.
You're just becoming being."
Let's leave him there. O my dear Muse
I must say that I detest
The words that I am forced to use
Like "bugger" and the rest
And pee and fuck and dick and cunt
(Poor Noddy's vade mecum)
But I only sing as he was wont
Which is, it seems, "fair dinkum"
Or whatever they say near Botany Bay
In the land of Noddy's fellows,
Australia the Fair! And, anyway
Even old Catullus
And a murder thick of other bards
Were forced to this vile usage.
Don't ask me who. It's rather hard
Living in a loose age
Where buggery is thought a crime
(I mean the kind consensual)
While helping thousands out of time
Is reaching your potential.
Sing mea culpa everyone
Pick up the muse and lug her
Guts to the top of Helicon
And bugger, gently, bugger.
Sweet Christ! Not yet! Unhand her, Mark
It's a swerving so to swive
We're still on Wilson River Drive
And Noddy's still alive.
He guards the sacred oxen
The oxen of the Sun.
But a glamour seems to mock him.
He only sees the one.
And this one looks just like a cow.
So what does Noddy dare?
"Flossie my own fleur du mal!"
Then he goes all Baudelaire.
And takes her in unnatural ways
Ways so vile and low
They were unmatched until the days
Of Verlaine and Rimbaud.
The cow just mooed and chewed and mooed.
Noddy did what should be banned.
O depths of Moral Turpitude!
He mentioned old Ayn Rand!
He only muttered out the word
To try to keep from coming
He was dreaming of the pliant herds
And of his different drumming.
The cow cried out! The levin flashed!
Noddy screamed in pain.
The cow dissolved! The levin flashed!
Little Noddy came.
What against he couldn't tell
But it was the Goddess Io
Who had simply been through hell.
You can read it in her bio.
Noddy struggled to get off
And gave a little cry-a
The goddess gave a little cough
"They call the wind Mariah.
The fire is Tess, the rain is Joe
I hope I get this straight.
Apollo has a golden bow.
Aphrodite's always late.
Zeus has the juice and just hangs loose
Hera's such a hassle.
And I learned the truth from Lenny Bruce
That Plato is an asshole."
The goddess felt a tiny pinch
And touched her sacred portal
Little Noddy dared not flinch
"I think I smell a mortal."
And then she felt a nasty itch
In the derriere direction.
"Oh dear", she sighed "This is a bitch
I've got a yeast infection.
A douche might work. A douche divine.
Of amaranth and rue
And equal parts of turpentine
And a little Mountain Dew."
She sighed and wished. Behold the douche!
A boiling viscous fluid
That chuckled like a Scaramouche
In a cunning little cruet.
"Douche to the Gods, my lady fair,"
The douche cried with panache
Made little Fairbanks in the air
And fondled his moustache.
But what of Noddy? Damn my eyes.
I seem to have forgotten.
He hung there by a mild surmise
And smelled like fish most rotten
Behold! The douche leaps from the cup
And quivers on the quim.
Noddy weeps and covers up
And sings an English hymn
A quavering tune: "I thee implore
To save a wretch like me."
That Little Noddies like to sing
When far away at sea
And their mothers are so far away
And it's really dark at night
And it's a long way to Bristol bay
With that nasty bosun tight.
But the douche just laughed and tried to peer
Through the deific tangle
He was a jolly musketeer
Who held his sword a dangle
That sword had killed a thousand yeasts
From Moscow to Peoria
And drank the blood of judas priests
All for the greater glory...
"Ah", he cried when he saw the lad
This is to damn too damn too damn bad
And the douche just wept: "Sad sad sad
This is just too damn too damn too damn bad."
And little Noddy wept. He knew the truth.
His only friend was a goddamn douche.
The douche heaved a heavy sigh.
"All of this will pass."
And picked up a crab just passing by
Who bit Noddy in his ass.
"Free at last", the poor boy squeaked
Unstuck from his own jism
And saw where his becoming leaked
All sparkling like a prism.
He reached his hand around behind
And plucked out the owl feather
Preferring matter over mind
Started running for the heather.
The Goddess laughed and saw him run
(It really wasn't fair)
"A mortal. Oh, what jolly fun."
Then seemed to catch the air.
Little Noddy shrieked and fell
And cried out (rather quizzical)
"Jesus Christ this hurts like hell
My dick is metaphysical!"
And so it was! It dandled there
At least ten or twenty versts
What once was meat was passing rare.
God knows how that hurts.
That mini-length of Oscar Mayer
Now thinner than the thistle
Upon the head of Richard Pryor
Or Nancy Reagan's pistle
Stretched out in far flung molecules
Like a St. Tommy's angel band
One end near his follicles
The other in her hand!
She reeled him back and played with him
Like a fish upon a string.
He'd make a pretty pendant
She could even make him sing.
Poor Noddy begged and sobbed and moaned
As he dandled twixt her breasts
He bitched and kvetched and groaned and groaned
Till the goddess got depressed.
She took the little minnikin
And held him up to see
"I once knew a Mick named Finnigan
that sounded just like thee.
What do you want you little shit?"
Then Noddy did reply
"I want this terrible dream to quit
If not, I want to die."
The goddess sighed and twitched her nose
The little guy was free!
He ended up upon the ranch
With Hoss and Pa and me.
He's happy now cause all he does
He does it all for Lorne.
And what a wiz he was he was
Shucking all the corn.
He talks philosophy with Hoss
Does his oriental thing
Bitches and bemoans his loss
And buggers poor Hop Sing!
The little men? Why she found them.
In their tiny elfin grot.
And listened to their boring talk
Screwed up her nose, said "NOT!"
And they were changed, changed udderly
To ugly leprechauns
And, though they are more cudderly,
They'll still fuck up your lawns
And bugger moths and butcher flies
As they were wont to do
And fashion little priestly stys
All in the morning dew
They'll "crucify the butterflies"
"Break gnats upon the wheel."
Then tell you with a wild surmise,
"I guess it's how we feel."
Four and twenty blackbirds
Eat the ever-dying swan
Tiresius eats Jesus
All bloody flows the Don
Aristotle in his bottle
Keeps looking for a ship
But tiny sailors sail away
And let the big seas slip.

Straight for the heart of Lyra.

"I'm so pleased we're not dining at the ranch tonight.
Hop Sing's such a filthy cook."
Peter O'Toole
"Was he more convinced of the esthetic value of the spectacle?
Indubitably in consequence of the reiterated examples of poets in
the delerium of the frenzy of attachment or in the abasement of
rejection invoking ardent sympathetic constellations or the frigidity
of the satellite of the planet."
Sunny Jim
--------------------------------------------
Notes: Yes, I know that Io was not a goddess. Jesus Christ.
A douche might work. A douche divine.
Of amaranth and rue
And equal parts of turpentine
And a little Mountain Dew." (1)
1. Do not try this at home.

posted by & @ 10:35 PM