Pat Compton - Poetry

The title is mine (and the verse split). The illustration to the right is the card that Pat sent to me in London, not having the time to write it up in the card before I had to depart to the Capital once more at the weekend. It’s relevant to the poem, hence the inclusion. The poem is most definitely Pat’s!!! It was an odd and motley band, with floozie on the drums, And Gizmo on the violin, his thoughts on sticky buns. Young Scuzzie played the tuba, blowing hard with all her might, Her cheeks puffed like her midriff, it was the strangest sight! The vocals were a problem, as two of them were mute, So they roped in a passing moggie, who was really rather cute! Another passing alleycat could play a chord or two, So they put him on the French horn where he blew a View Haloo! This caused a minor ruckus when it drew in several dogs, But soon the thing was sorted when they called in the "big mogs". They very soon had players for the xylophone and sax, The trumpet and the squeezebox, and were playing to the max. Soon, all they needed was a cat to play percussion, And this was quickly chosen after very brief discussion. At last, they all were ready, this rag-tag motley crew, But why were they assembled? To sing "Happy Birthday" to you !! Enjoy! Pat Compton, 5th June 2005 N.B. For more of a background on the cats and their characters, it might be worth reading through my blog pages - try June 2005, as that refers to this poem.

Pat gave this to a little boy as an illustration of how to deal with his anger issues. Needless to say, the little chap was delighted. Unfortunately, Pat only got a photocopy and gave the boy the original, so hence the black and whiteness of it… Pat Compton, Approx. 2002

When your foot is in your mouth, And hope of mercy has gone South, Remember Zen's immortal word, Although it may seem quite absurd, When your ego's on it's knees, "Even monkeys fall from trees." Though the situation's dire, Your ego's sunk below the mire, Your street-cred's fled right out of town, The only path you see is down, A word of wisdom to appease, Is "Even monkeys fall from trees." So don't give up it's not a joke, This Zen was quite a clever bloke, He thought up just the thing to say, To send resentment on it's way, When inspiration ups and flees, "Even monkeys fall from trees" ! Nb. He also wrote "Never teach a pig to whistle" !! Pat Compton, June 1998

Well, Lisa, now you're 31, And day with us are almost done, I’d like to take the chance to wish ya Happy Birthday! .... and we’ll miss ya When you go to pastures new, (A bijoux cottage with a view will probably be your abode), And we will wish you hadn’t goed! But for now I'll keep it brief, And hope that in amid your grief, For dear Diana’s tragic fate, You’ll find some time to celebrate. Be well, be good, be happy! — A Pattie Original ...

How shall we miss you, let me count the ways. With manner blunt, and humour sharp, you've brightened up our days. For all the things you’ve done for us, with not a hint of moan or fuss For all the jugs of coffee made, and calming down of tempers frayed, For taking on some rotten cases, and all without you pulling faces, For handling with great élan, Bitch-Woman, and Bastard-Man, For all the things we’ve come to know, that we’ll remember when you go. And when you’re gone, I must forsake, your shining wit in our fag breaks, Our talk of booze and bras and hair, you reading my Community Care. But now I'm getting quite morose, and so I think I'd better close This ode before it gets too naff, or sounds more like an epitaph... So long, and thanks for all the fag breaks! — A Pattie Original ...

Now you are 40, there's things you should know, About the near future and how things could go I know that you work hard to keep yourself fit, You go to the gym lots and you've got all the kit, But now that you're older, you must watch your back, And don't strain your heart or you'll have an attack. You've probably noticed your eyes going queer, When a book held at arm's length is still much too near. But very soon now things will get a lot worse, So to get used to it you had better rehearse. Fighting the flab's like the Battle of Britain, And after a stroll, you're as weak as a kitten. You look in the mirror and feel quite aghast, As you realise your looks are a thing of the past. Your chin has receded, your hair is fast thinning, The war against age, you surely ain't winning. Your wits against fate you continue to pit, But your downhill decline carries on bit-by-bit. You work hard at your sit-ups all through the week, But your joints start to crack and your muscles all creak. When draughts in the night cause a crick in your neck, Let's face it mate, you're becoming a wreck. And just when you think there's no further to sink, You realise, in panic, you can't even think. But this is the point when things start to improve, Though you find it increasingly difficult to move, Your mind is a muddle, your memory's gone West, To remember the date, or your name's quite a test, But this is the best bit, you don't give a toss, About your decline or your memory loss, Your hernia and incontinence go over your head, As with senile dementia, you take to your bed. — A Pattie Original ...

If I Could be Mystic Meg with all her magic powers, I would not wish to be a mouse the hides away and cowers, I’d wish I as a bumble bee buzzing through the flowers. In and out the flower heads, whiling away the hours, Better than the human folk in their ivory towers, Flitting through the flowerbeds and through the leafy bowers. Hunting through the flower heads for nectar sweet he scours, A bee is happy all day long, and hardly ever glowers. Unless you chance sit on him, and then he stings... ow!.. owers!! by me. --- A Pattie Original Pat Compton, August 1997

Who was that man, I hear you say, Just glimpsed before he crept away. That rare recluse so seldom seen, Entranced by his computer screen. Is he myth or is he real? Or did he make some dreadful deal? With Demon Gates, the silicon mage Who trapped him in his lonely cage. Condemned to while away his life Bereft of solace, love ... and wife! Can he break the iron will, His empty heart and soul to fill? Or will he remained doomed forever? It could be yes, or maybe never... ...Who can tell..... Pat Compton, 1997 Approx.