En Memorium II

Good Dog Nigel

Arf, Arf, he goes, a merry sight,
Our little hairy friend,
Arf, Arf, upon the lampost bright
Arfing round the bend.
Nice dog! Goo boy,
Waggie tail and beg,
Clever Nigel, jump for joy

Because we're putting you to sleep at three of the clock, Nigel.

Being a Short Diversion on the Dubious Origins of Beatles

Translated from the John Lennon.

     Once upon a time there were three little boys called John, George and Paul, by name christened. They decided to get together because they were the getting together type. When they were together they wondered whatfor after all, what for? So all of a sudden they all grew guitars and learned a noise. Funnily enough, no one was interested, least of all the three little men. So-o-o-o on discovering a fourth little even littler man called Stuart Sutcliffe running about them they said,quote 'Sonny get a bass guitar and you will be alright' and he did--but he wasn't alright because he couldn't play it. So they sat on him with comfort 'til he could play. Still there was no beat, and a kindly old aged man said, quote 'Thou hast not drums!' We had no drums! they coffed. So a series of drums came and went and came.
      Suddenly, in Scotland, touring with Johnny Gentle, the group (the called the Beatles called) discovered they had not a very nice sound-- because they had no amplifiers. They got some. Many people ask what are Beatles? Why Beatles? Ugh, Beatles, how did the name arrive? So we will tell you. It came in a vision--a man appeared in a flaming pie and said unto them 'From this day on you are Beatles with an A'. Thank you, Mister Man, they said, thanking him.
      And then a man with a beard cut off said--will you go to Germany (Hamburg) and play mighty rock for the peasants for money? And we said we would play mighty anything for money.
      But before we could go we had to grow a drummer, so we grew one in West Derby in a club called Some Casbah and his trouble was Pete Best. We called 'Hello, Pete, come off to Germany!' 'Yes!' Zooooom. After a few months, Peter and Paul (who is called McArtrey, son of Jim McArtrey, his father) lit a Kino (cinema) and the German police said 'Bad Beatles, you must go home and light your English cinemas.' Zooooom, half a group. But even before this, the Gestapo had taken my friend little George Harrison (of Speke) away because he was only twelve and too young to vote in Germany; but after two months in England he grew eighteen, and the Gestapoes said 'You can come.' So suddenly all back in Liverpool Village were many groups playing in grey suits and Jim said 'Why have you no grey suits?' "We don't like them, Jim' we said speaking to Jim. After playing in the clubs a bit, everyone said 'Go to Germany!' So we are.
     Zooooom. Stuart gone. Zoom zoom John (of Woolton) George (of Speke) Peter and Paul zoom zoom. All of them gone.
      Thank you club members, from John and George (what are friends).

I Sat Belonely

I sat belonely down a tree,
humbled fat and small.
A little lady sing to me
I couldn't see at all.
I'm looking up and at the sky,
to find such wondrous voice.
Puzzly puzzle, wonder why,
I hear but have no choice.

'Speak up, come forth, you ravel me',
I potty menthol shout.
'I know you hiddy by this tree'.
But still she won't come out.
Such softly singing lulled me sleep,
an hour or two or so
I wakeny slow and took a peep
and still no lady show.
Then suddy on a little twig
I thought I see a sight,
A tiny little tiny pig,
that sing with all it's might.
'I thought you were a lady'.
I giggle, - well I may,
To my surprise the lady,
got up - and flew away.

No Flies On Frank

     There were no flies on Frank that morning - after all why not? He was a responsible citizen with a wife and child, wasn't he? It was a typical Frank morning and with an agility that defies description he leapt into the bathroom onto the scales. To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall heavy! He couldn't believe it and his blood raised to his head, causing a mighty red colouring.
     'I carn't not believe this incredible fact of truth about my very body which has not gained fat since mother begat me at childburn. Yea, though I wart through the valet of thy shadowy hut I will feed no norman. What grate qualmsy hath taken me thus into such a fatty hardbuckle.'
     Again Frank looked down at the awful vision which clouded his eyes with fearful weight. 'Twelve inches more heavy, Lo!, but am I not more fatty than my brother Geoffery whise father Alec came from Kenneth -- through Leslies, who begat Arthur, son of Eric, by the house of Ronald and April -- keepers of James of Newcastle who ran Madeline at 2-1 by Silver Flower, (10-2) past Wot-ro-Wot at 4/3d a pound?'
     He journeyed downstairs crestfallen and defective -- a great wait on his boulders -- not even his wife's battered face could raise a smile on poor Frank's head -- who as you know had no flies on him. His wife, a former beauty queer, regarded him with a strange but burly look.
     'What ails thee, Frank? she asked stretching her prune. 'You look dejected if not informal,' she addled.
     "Tis nothing but wart I have gained but twelve inches more tall heavy than at the very clock of yesterday at this time -- am I not the most miserable of men? Suffer ye not to spake to me or I might thrust you a mortal injury; I must traddle this trial alone.'
     'Lo! Frank -- thous hast smote me harshly with such grave talk -- am I to blame for this vast burton?'
     Frank looked sadly at his wife -- forgetting for a moment the cause of his misery. Walking slowly but slowly toward her, he took his head in his hands and with a few swift blows gad clubbed her mercifully to the ground dead.
     'She shouldn't see me like this,' he mubbled, 'not all fat and on her thirtysecond birthday.'
     Frank had to het his own breakfast that morning and also on the following mornings.
     Two, (or was it three?) weeks later Frank awake again to find that there were still no flies on him.
     'No flies on this Frank boy,' he thought; but to his amazement there seemed to be a lot of flies on his wife -- who was still lying about the kitchen floor.
     'I carn't not partake of bread and that with her lying about the place,' he thought allowed, writing as he spoke. 'I must deliver her to her home whore she will be made welcome.'
     He gathered her in a small sack (for she was only four foot three) and headed for her rightful home. Frank knocked on the door of his wife's mothers house. She opened the door.
     'I've brought Marian home, Mrs. Sutherskill' (he could never call her Mum). He opened the sack and placed Marian on the doorstep.
     'I'm not having all those flies in my home,' shouted Mrs. Sutherskill (who was very houseproud), shutting the door. 'She could have at least offered me a cup of tea,' thought Frank lifting the problem back on his boulders.

Copyright © 1964 by John Lennon.

Subtitled "Lucy in the Scarf With Diabetics"

...it has come to our atissue (bless you), that war is only profitable to those left behind; to wit, and if and when the Third World War (most aptly titled) breaks out, who will know who won? We at RANDUM have a lot of machines. WHO WILL RUN THEM? The late President Exxon was himself heard to mumble "Hurt me! hurt me!" but his democracy was never taped. His Matron was seen to test his cocoa for signs of the times, such as Communist footballs or deliberate nutshells on the White House lawn. (One such was found in the Garden of Unaccountably Dead Plants, but it was never proven.) Soon to become a household worm, hi name went down throughly in history. His library will contain the ashes of every one he knew and the Howard HUGE Memorial Hospital next door will only admit dead people, for fear of Spreading Some Unconscionable Disease. Mr. HUGE himself was a well-known hyperconduit.
      Although this study took only four years to garnish, it still smelled a little. Well, Rabbit Warren Report looked good too, apart from the strange theory that the same bullet killed both John Kennedy and Efrem Zimbalist Jr. without stopping for lunch. The author, a previous Chef of the C.I.A., has spent many long hours in a motel toilet somewhere off the coast of Cubans (also known aas Florid, or God's Waiting Room). He would not revel his sorceress even under the threat of love. He's our kinda guy. Next week we'll discuss "How to Satisfy a Dead Housewife," a closer look at feminism by the author of "Take My Wife Anywhere," in which J. Walter Tombestone investigates himself too closely in front of a group of admirers. This form of Grudge Therapy is catching on like a pleasant diease all across America; many names have appeared at the home of Dr. Grudge in need of help. A reformed member of the F.B.I., he has been tailing himself for fourteen years in an effort to Get At The Truth.

     We will continue our six-part serious on the life on seemingly ordinary Peculiarites entitled "I Wonder the Streets of Old New York.":
ah, the smell of lice squads
the half-baked politician
his inorganic possibilities displayed
all over forty-ninth street
in an obvious bid for power.

     The winner is stretched in Bloomingdale's window as an example of Western art. Well, that's the way God planned it.

     I leave you as I found you -- only some time later.

John Lennon

Copyright © 1982 by the Estate of John Lennon.