To start with, something simple: a fat cat
the choleric class-guard catch on the fiddle,
gaily milking a capacious cash cow,
Undeservedly shooting for the moon.
The everyman knows revenge is a dish
best served without using a silver spoon.
So now that line is set by those who fiddle
with fonts that fell empires, but then a cat
in gloves catches no mice. The greasy spoon
will spume with hegemonic fumes that cow
blue-collared hosts of pigeonholes, who dish
out counsel more than once in a blue moon.
The weltanschauung victors – holy cow!
Prorating to the populous a dish
so obvious it seems inane to moon
over the finer points. Truth’s second fiddle
when the right spiel can let Schrödinger’s cat
out of the bag, much less when tabloids spoon
their shots well wide, casting beyond the moon
with past hypotheses. Good tune, old fiddle.
Count all the household names that we’ve heard cat
around behind their wives, or wooden-spoon
sportsmen rat-arsed. We think we know a cow
from an idol, a cheater from a dish.
We disburse our smug racket, like a dish
washer in Goodfellas, over the moon
just to be part of it, while wiseguys fiddle
the books with our equations. Walk the cat
back through frill and excursus: spoon-by-spoon
gossip-ingurgitation, grass to cow.
The poison and the cure’s from the same spoon,
how Sherwood versus Walker saw its cow
inventing the collective foul. We dish
the dirt of ages, stirred as tide to moon
by filaments of a dogmatic fiddle,
quiet, convinced, like the feet of a cat.
the choleric class-guard catch on the fiddle,
gaily milking a capacious cash cow,
Undeservedly shooting for the moon.
The everyman knows revenge is a dish
best served without using a silver spoon.
So now that line is set by those who fiddle
with fonts that fell empires, but then a cat
in gloves catches no mice. The greasy spoon
will spume with hegemonic fumes that cow
blue-collared hosts of pigeonholes, who dish
out counsel more than once in a blue moon.
The weltanschauung victors – holy cow!
Prorating to the populous a dish
so obvious it seems inane to moon
over the finer points. Truth’s second fiddle
when the right spiel can let Schrödinger’s cat
out of the bag, much less when tabloids spoon
their shots well wide, casting beyond the moon
with past hypotheses. Good tune, old fiddle.
Count all the household names that we’ve heard cat
around behind their wives, or wooden-spoon
sportsmen rat-arsed. We think we know a cow
from an idol, a cheater from a dish.
We disburse our smug racket, like a dish
washer in Goodfellas, over the moon
just to be part of it, while wiseguys fiddle
the books with our equations. Walk the cat
back through frill and excursus: spoon-by-spoon
gossip-ingurgitation, grass to cow.
The poison and the cure’s from the same spoon,
how Sherwood versus Walker saw its cow
inventing the collective foul. We dish
the dirt of ages, stirred as tide to moon
by filaments of a dogmatic fiddle,
quiet, convinced, like the feet of a cat.