Skip to main content

The Noodle Song

O dock-a-doodle dack,
Boil a noodle black.
Boil it in Artsakh
(Nagorno-Karabakh),
Boil it in Tibet
With salt and alkanet,
Boil it in Darjeeling
That will be a good thing.

O zock-a-zoodle zed
Bake the noodle red.
Bake it in Alaska,
Kansas or Nebraska.
Bake it in St Andrews
With raisins and cashews.
Bake it in Singapore,
And just a little more.

O cock-a-coodle coo,
Roast the noodle blue
Roast it in Santa Cruz
Hormuz or Veracruz
Roast it in Tripoli
With white ravioli
Roast in Wollongong
But do not keep it long.

O mock-a-moodle meen
Fry the noodle green.
Fry it in Mandalay
In oil of Olay,
Fry it in Cameroon
Under a waxing moon,
Fry it in East London
Until this song is done.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.
8 comments
Read more

Mother

Mother has many names. Anak Krakatau might be one of them, Or Uttarkashi or Qinghai, Haiti certainly is. She's the mother that swallowed Maui into her womb, the mother that disarmed Karna, who led Oedipus to sin. She plays pranks too, in that cheerful way unique to her. We find strange names to give them - tsunami, hurricane. Kalki is another name we've given her, for when she will be an old woman looking for some kind of elixir of youth. Perhaps some quack will mislead her to find it in our blood. She has a heart of gold they say - pure, molten lava, that sometimes erupts on her skin like a ripe pimple. She loves nothing more than the sound of babies crying - orphaned, bloodied, hungry, dying their carcasses feeding hyaenas. But hyaenas are her children too. But she is the green mother who feeds us, clothes us, protects us from the sun's ionizing radiation, we came from her loins, which is where we go.
2 comments
Read more

बर्फी की शादी - बालकविता

बर्फी के घर में शादी है, दुल्हा उसका लड्डू है, माला उसकी किशमिश है, चूडी उसकी काजू है, बादाम उसकी बाली है, चाँदी की उसकी चुनरी है! यह कृति उमर बहुभाषीय रूपांन्तरक की मदद से देवनागरी में टाइप की गई है|
Post a Comment
Read more