A Vogon poem
In honour of the Technical Documents.

Why won’t you understand?
It’s so simple a child could do it.
You only need to be willing to learn
And master the Splectic Method.

Now this is the Splectic Method,
So called because the dinobial splexum,
Instead of flanding perobically,
Is isoporadic and pletcher-free
With respect to the fornic tondle.
It’s so simple a child could do it.
Now counterforadically frendle the fremm
(Taking care not to pindle the retrofuge)
To mark the axis of co-quixation,
To fiddle the faddle and squink the squonk,
And that is the Splectic Method.

But first,
Take care that the dectic relambature,
Instead of flanding perobically,
Is isoporadic and pletcher-free
With respect to the flange of the splexum.
You only need to be willing to learn
To adjust the flinding renoberator
To less than the critical crillament
Of the anasybotic trexus.
And once you have tannelled the trexus
(Taking care not to pindle the retrofuge)
You mark the axis of co-quixation,
To fiddle the faddle and squink the squonk,
And that is the Splectic Method.

Oh, dear!
You didn’t refrux the relambature,
And now the frinch is deplenerated
And starting to fland perobically,
Not isoporadic or pletcher-free
with respect to the orthozonabulum.
Why won’t you understand?
You have ruined the whole dyspractic.
You have even pindled the retrofuge,
In spite of my simple instructions,
As clear as the peridenobic fluid,
(Or rather, as clear as it used to be
Before you disprickled the peridenobes).
It’s so simple a child could do it.
You only had to be willing to learn,
And master the Splectic Method.

     (Signed)
     H. Smiggy McStudge

A beast with tawny fur and wistful eyes
   stares down the world through bars of serried steel.
He knows not why his life is held in prize;
   all else is guesswork, but the cage is real.
The keeper brings him food, but not release;
   the metal is for burnishing, not breaking.
Each passing day, the doubt and fear increase;
   each night brings dreams uncaged, and bitter waking.
Why is a mouse in such a prison pent,
as vermin, pet, or cold experiment?

Or was it fear forged this accursed place,
   fear of a vengeance fatal if set free?
Is it a king that frets his futile pace,
   shorn of his mane as of his liberty?
He tries his strength, but cannot take its measure:
   greater or less, the bars are stronger still.
No purpose, no escape, but deathly leisure,
   a wasted wrath, an ever thwarted will.
Did He Who made the lion make the cage,
and make him strong for naught but useless rage?

* * * *

   The lock is sprung:— the beast escapes its house.
   Which is it, then: the lion or the mouse?

For the director of music. 12-bar blues.

I’m sure you know already, for you must have heard the tale,
of a certain Magic Dragon and his coat of shining scales;
how little Jackie Paper came to play with him no more.
But Puff would soon recover once he found a brand-new roar.
Now he’s traded on the Stock Exchange, a limited company,
and he’s listed on the Board as Magic Dragon plc. [Read more…]

Dearest, this is not the end:
Death received us long ago.
Where two roads crossed in the snow,
we looked round each deceiving bend;
where others trod we feared to go.
It was then we chose to die:
This is not the end. [Read more…]

When I became a man, they said,
I’d put away these childish things:
these princesses too fair to wed,
these elves and dragons, phials and rings. [Read more…]

A hearth with seasoned oak and tinder laid
awaits a spark to set the fuel ablaze,
and on the mantel, blooms that never fade
   defy the count of days.  [Read more…]