Only known likeness of St Ira, Charcoal on otter-skin. Gottfried von Boyes-Garten, C 1543. (with permission) Sir Lancelot Boyeketeh, Grimwald unter den wald, 1812.
Dear reader, we take the briefest intervals from the excellent poetry of Emiritus Professor Geoffrey Boyes, (late of Magdalen College Ox) to give you a fragment of an ancient, some say ‘Arisptophanic poem’. Inscribed on clay tablet in cuneiform it took quite a bit of translating, (we are indebted to Mrs Culthorpe prior to her internship with the Coalition for the translation) as it proves the cultural depth of the near-north at a time when it was hitherto perceived as being coarse, vulgar and uncivilised. Credited to our favourite bard of the bucolic ballad, Saint Ira of Tolmie, it shines a light on the human condition.
Though the true origins of both the bard and the poem are at the very least enigmatic, we do know that, like his namesake St Patrick of Ira, he cleansed Tolmie of Vipers, and ensured that those attuned to his lyricism were gripped by an insatiable desire to procreate. Perhaps tellingly his poems fell on deaf- ears, but were widely adopted by the ‘bunnies’ in which he refers to.
Either way it’s a stirring poem and details, chapter and verse, what people did in olden days before social media, the telly and sportsbet 24/7
Sean Connery poses, ‘The lays of ancient Ira” J.A Rank Corp c. 1958. The first filmic adaptation of the life of the obscure Australian bard. Filmed on location Coogee, Sydney.
Take it away Ira,…..
God help us all.
I wandered out today, half kissed,
At the time when the mist was thickest,
Don’t dismiss this mist, may it still persist,
‘Til I buy myself some knickers!
This mist, of which I speak of here,
Adds nothing to this telling.
It’s merely here for atmosphere,
Though thick and evil smelling!
A bride, new wed, it’s said, fell dead,
While losing her maiden status,
Her life’s now fled, so’s her maidenhead…
Theatrical card “Ira’s Bunnies” unreleased Warner Bros Musical C. 1943. Starring Errol Flynn and Ziegfeld Girls.
See how poems improve through pathos…?
But back to my fear of no under gear
And my need for—God help us, if only a
Shop would appear, no matter how dear,
If it saves my arse from pneumonia!
They say that a rabbit has the indecent habit
Of doing it from daylight ‘til dusk.
That’s why lady bunnies have permanent big tummies
But it’s their men who look permanently fucked.
I’ll put an end to these verses which recount my reverses,
Whilst pursuing new knickers and sox.
But how cruelly perverse is this fellow who swears he’s
My friend? May the gods rot his jocks!
Obverse side of Cuneiform tablet, perhaps the only portrait of young Ira teaching Aristotle trigonometry. Unearthed Tolmie waste transfer station. C. 2011, carbon dated 412 b.c
He writes poems about me which we all plainly see,
Demonstrate very little research.
His attempts at biography and verse choreography
Do only his own standing besmirch.
I would praise him much more, but his insults galore,
Have quite pierced this old mongrel’s heart.
Still, I regret to my core, my calling him a whore.
It’s his poetry makes him sound like a tart!