Holding bony hands
骨のある手を握る
風が私たちの髪を引っ張るとき-
あなたの白、私の絶滅
Deflecting your fateis as arrogant as catslearning how to fly.あなたの運命をそらす
猫と同じくらい傲慢です
飛ぶ方法を学ぶ。
The dirty skyscapeattracts certain kinds of birdsnot to our liking.汚い空の景色
特定の種類の鳥を引き付ける
私たちの好みではありません。
As a small boy James Macintosh once asked his tutor at Saint Burley-on-the-Cue Boy's Municipal Fluoride Academy what the difference was between premonition and intuition.
His wise tutor, after filling his pipe with sage and turkish taffy, and lighting it from a nearby burning bush, replied:
"A premonition is hatched from a promontory; while intuition is free to anyone who can play a decent game of soccer."
Macintosh never forget those stirring words. He often tells this story to his adoring acolytes, over a flowing bowl of butterscotch punch down at the Fluffy Sheep's Head Pub.
Jimmy, as he is known to practically no one but his accountant, is the kind of writer who will walk a mile in another man's shoes rather than buy a new pair of his own. He writes a ten-thousand word essay each morning before dawn on the importance of Stilton cheese to the British Commonwealth, and then punts up and down the Thames, taking potshots at mudlarks.
His prize-winning work at the Wall Street Journal includes an in-depth look at the Marmite Cartel and its sinister influence on Brexit. He won the prestigious Arthur Q. Poppinjay Award for his expose of sentient vending machines. His journalist colleagues agree that no one writes a passive/aggressive sentence the way Jimmy Macintosh does.
His hobbies include distilling artisan embalming fluid and cultivating colanders at his villa on Capri.
He is currently under indictment for posting photos of his cats on Twitter.
How to open up?
With a gray and cautious squeak?
Or a purple roar?
開く方法は？
灰色で慎重なきしみ音で？
または紫色の轟音？
Coins in a fountain.Thirty pieces of silver.Bowling for dollars. 噴水のコイン。
銀貨30枚。
ドルのためのボウリング。
All the homeless heartsface the winter's harsh flurriesso alone alone.すべてのホームレスの心
冬の厳しい風花に直面する
一人でA silent chapel
redolent of polished pews
Salted frozen shrimp
静かな礼拝堂
磨かれた会衆席のあふれんばかり
塩漬けの冷凍エビ
Prepare to write verse --sharpen the red pencil --hunt for a toothpick.詩を書く準備をしなさい- 赤鉛筆を研ぐ- つまようじを探します。Are those rocks or mice?Are these the tires or the wind?Has the road ended?それらの岩やネズミですか？ これらはタイヤですか、それとも風ですか？ 道は終わりましたか？
My favorite quote
I don't quite recall too good;
but I'm telling it.
私のお気に入りの引用
あまりよく覚えていません。
しかし、私はそれを言っていますThe rustle of leaves
upon the dry winter wind --
warms my heart for her.
葉のざわめき
乾燥した冬の風に-
あなたのために私の心を温めます
Pie crust and cream cheese are shades of the past;
the stores have run out and my stockpile won't last.
It's true that the turkey is plump as can be
and cranberry sauce, like the sands of the sea,
abundantly flows round the gravy boat lee;
but where is the butter for rolls and the like --
are we now to face a petite hunger strike?
The dill pickle relish is plentiful, sure --
but glossy black olives have become quite obscure!
The only boxed wines are uncorked antifreeze.
The heck with it . . . where is that darn mac and cheese?
Wary workers won't get vaxed;
they run the risk of being axed.
Bizness owners do complain
that their staffers still maintain
that a puncture to the skin
is now tantamount to sin.
Where they get this addled thought
is probably from some crackpot.
America would rather shirk
common sense than stay at work.
People know that smoking's bad.
Drinking may kill your doodad.
But somehow with a simple shot
people go all Huguenot --
martyrs to some Fed intrigue;
victims of a quack blitzkrieg!
Phooey to such aberration.
Employers will use automation.
The time has come, the time is near
to visit relatives so dear.
And so upon the plane I board
with nothing but a harpsichord.
I never bring my luggage now
cuz it gets so lost anyhow --
I'd rather get insurance paid
on some antique that is mislaid.
My seat has shrunk since last I flew;
they must think I'm an allen screw.
The meal I'm served is vulcanized
and so stale it has crystallized.
The in-flight movie is so dull
it's cracking up my fragile skull.
And in the seat right next to me
a man is snoring blissfully.
He shifts his bulk to block my view
of anything but his muumuu.
And then it's time to you-know-what,
but how will I get past this nut?
My busted bladder's not severe;
I just won't fly again this year . . .
the little tin pan
with not enough oil in it
burns the anchovy
小さなブリキの鍋
オイルが足りない
カタクチイワシを燃やす
the green hollow airreverberates with nothing --shreds of bark remain緑の中空の空気
何も響かない-
樹皮の断片が残っています
lefse on the grillflour covers her apronthe smell of burnt grainグリルのレフセ
小麦粉が彼女のエプロンを覆っている
焦げた穀物のにおいThe gray clouds are scrubbed
clean and white again tonight --
the moon stays unwashed.
灰色の雲がこすり落とされます
今夜もきれいで白く-
月は洗われないままです。
Aren't you ashamed of yourself
for clicking on this link?
Don't you have anything
better to do?
Lemme tell you something, son;
there is nothing like a gun.
Hefted in a manly hand
it will make you feel quite grand.
Did you know the Feds curtail
guns and ammo when for sale?
Used to be you'd pay in cash
and got your gun as quick as hash.
But now, alas, that ain't the case;
the red tape is a huge disgrace.
Try buying a Kalashnikov;
you will be told to bugger off!
And when you want to buy a Glock
they'll tell you they are out of stock.
No dum dum bullets or hand grenades --
How can a guy go on crusades?
Now down in Mexico, my lad,
things are not yet quite so bad.
If you have enough dinero
you can be a bandolero.
Guns and apple pie, amigo;
that's the true blue Yankee ego.
So start with BB guns, my boy,
to join the brutal hoi polloi!
******************
I ordered a new oven but it's still in port they say/I need it for the pumpkin pie on this Thanksgiving day/I guess I'll light a fire in the basement on cement/and roast the turkey over embers with no decent vent/And if my cooking is all charred and turns out to be smelly/I guess I'll order something from The Brothers Kosher Deli.
A crazy man walked down the street;
his eyes you did not want to meet.
For if you did he'd yell at you,
and scream just like a cockatoo.
He had a gun; he waved it madly.
He crooned to it, and called it Bradley.
Was he a vet; what was his race?
The cops ignored him, just in case.
He shot up windows, aimed at birds;
he was a menace, in other words.
No John Wayne would face him down,
and so he terrorized the town.
Until, that is, he shot a bear,
who didn't take it debonair.
The critter pawed him right and left
and gave his head an awful cleft.
So now the crazy man reposes
in a nursing home with roses.
The nurses took his gun away;
twas easier than mowing hay.
When cops their duty shirk so well,
then madmen with their shot and shell
can walk our streets quite unmolested --
knowing they won't be arrested!