1.
If a lion could speak,
we’d hear how Kruger has flattened his vowels,
how Longleat’s left him with a lisp,
how he’s zoo-mute,
and how his tamer wields a whip
then delves between his jaws
to extract the stammer.
If a lion could speak,
we’d correct his grammar,
purge his syntactical savannah
of herds of double negatives,
then wince if he ripped
apart just one infinitive.
If a lion could speak
he’d sphinx-talk about the thorn in his paw,
how MGM lip-synced his roar
and how Albert gave him heartburn for weeks.
If a lion could speak,
we may deign to reply,
though very loud and slow,
like a lion’s really a scarecrow in disguise.
If a lion could speak,
we’d insist he use English
but he’d cleave to Lionese.
The few of us who’d learnt Leopard
might grasp the lack of past and future tense,
while the rest would be baffled,
more concerned to learn
how to order a beer in Giraffe.
If a lion could speak,
we’d tire of his whinges of wardrobes and witches,
of how Richard filched his heart
and how his rampant act on flags
has knackered his hips.
In time, we’d surely ignore him,
drawn to the wit of warthogs,
and antelope banter instead.
If a lion could speak, he’d say Take a degree
in my language of strangling ungulates
and wrangling with vultures for the meat.
Then we’ll talk.
2.
Wardrobes lack wit.
Warthogs insist on the use of a disguise.
We’d whip the rampant scarecrow if we could,
then, flattened, he’d rest with the lion he’d just filched.
For if his savannah-heart could grasp a lion’s paw
who’d then speak of a grammar?
In the past, a baffled Albert gave the flags
a degree of order, while in future,
he could act like a giraffe.
How slow and how correct and how very English.
We’ll speak to more ungulates
and wince with the vultures.
Kruger has a language of negatives but, in time,
his mute lion-hips could learn to talk.
How about a lion? Might a lion say how?
Witches would double-take if one really knackered lion
could ignore his thorn and tire of his infinitive.
We’d speak of his meat and we’d speak
of strangling him instead – him! him!
If ripped Richard has a Lionese lisp in his beer,
he’d cleave to his syntactical antelope for weeks.
How tense. How could he!
Vowels apart, surely we’d purge the lion
of his heartburn if lip-synced wrangling
between Longleat’s jaws could be concerned.
Though tamer, his leopard delves
in his stammer and wields a roar.
If few reply to a left lion extract
and if herds learnt a loud sphinx of whinges
then how may my if-zoo deign to talk?
Speak, speak, speak –
we’d hear his MGM banter.
He’s drawn to us – and how.
3.
I, alone. Cold. Bleak.
Wed her now. Nougat is fattened with owls –
so wrong. Pete’s laughing – it’s Alice
(oh, she’s too cute!)
Anne’s cow is famous – fields unzip
themselves, as green as yours.
Go – unpack this summer.
In an iron hood, creak –
bleed, infect sick grandmas.
Urgent, impractical caravans
of words have troubled relatives.
Head winds have been tipped
to start. Trust cunning primitives.
Misaligned woods – specks,
seeds, lynx, hawks are out, reborn of this whore-
house. Energy in whips sinks this sore
land. Now all hurt paving can’t learn to shriek.
Is our crying good? Weak
tea, they claim, could repel
those scary-sounding hose-
pipes. Our crying’s merely a shadow in these eyes.
Whiffy loins. Cod-piece.
Please desist. Refusing swish
butties, we got Chinese.
A blue office would spurn Leonard’s
tights. Clasp a slack oaf, blast a few chairs, then
smile. At best, Ruby’s raffles
are upturned, so burn
now too, border on fear of bar graphs.
Ivy lines old cheeks.
Weeds spiral in spring’s onward probe. Banned wishes
have now stitched up rich wizards
around this lamp and baton. Flans
as lacquered as ships
win bindweed. Poorly pigs snore in
dawn’s other pit. If bored dogs
stand on the slope, panda skin’s red.
With a fine food geek, we may make a green pea
on rye sandwich. If handling young shallots,
add sand. Bring six sculptured forks, then eat
ten peeled stalks.
4.
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