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God is Fun Audio Visual Fun Feast



All poems © 1995 Blake Steele
May be copied and used freely.
Please identify author as is normal.

For publication rights please contact author.

All Paintings © 2003 Blake Steele

(Listen to Crooked Apple Tree)

I had a crooked apple tree

and nothing would it bear

but ruby cherries, oh so sweet,

and a little golden pear.

That crooked tree was my delight,

I watched it grow both day and night.

And many an evening, I'd sit alone

with cherry juice upon my chin

till children came to tease and moan

until I asked them in; 

then we would dance and laugh and play

until the golden break of day.


And in the morning, when a bright dewdrop

would shimmer on that golden pear,

which sat like a crown at the tree's tip top,

then we would lie and stare

up into the mystery

of my little crooked apple tree.



(Listen to Old Man of Lasate)


There was an old man of Lasate

who always danced as he ate,

he went spinning around

to the musical sound

of his knife and his fork on his plate.


And when his stew boiled on the heat,

or his oven was baking a sweet,

or his spit was roasting some meat,

he danced on his hands and his feet.


He never sat still at the table,

he never learned to as a child,

but being so quick and so able

with strawberry jam he was wild.


He plastered it over the sofa,

then spread it out on his bed sheets,

so after he'd danced up a polka

he could lie down and rest on the sweets.


He danced from morning 'till noontime,

he danced until it grew late,

he danced from midnight to sunrise,

for those were the times that he ate.


Yes, those were the times that he ate,

this curious man from Lasate,

who went spinning around

to the musical sound

of his knife and his fork on his plate.



                    COWS, COWS, AUDACIOUS AND WILD

                 (Listen to an original recording with Don Heath, 1992)


                         Cows, cows, audacious and wild,

                    undaunted, intrepid, unafraid of a child.

              Their brains are as clear of all fear as blue skies

          when a child swaggers up to stare straight in their eyes.

                        Cows, cows so valiant and game,

                  worthy to bear that auspicious cow name:

                                    Mooooo Cow!

                     IT'S SUCH FUN TO MAKE UP WORDS

                     THAT REALLY OUGHT TO BE

              (It's also fun to listen to others make them up)


                     Sitting on his doffle

                     a Floggel floxed a flea--

                     it's such fun to make up words

                     that really ought to be.

                     Not like those dry disphosfories

                     that flaunt the funless air

                     and cause the little worpple worms

                     to mindless mop and stare.

                     If a wondrous wazzel of a musical man

                     should hallupp his wupples and wees

                     with a scumphly toonful of balefully biffles

                     and fingers whenever he please,

                     then who could but tintifully waft in the wiffles

                     if a musical man should but dazzle your diffles

                     and wipplely wordify windward and wise

                     and mup and electrify you to the skies?

                     Not I! I'll not sit on my saplupzing rump

                     or thonk on my thinkle or drump on the sump

                     for that would be worst that a maleful of mush

                     and a slight to the windward, a blight and a blush

                     to the ringing and singing of swimply delight.

                     So down on our diffles let's dwip and recite

                     this much mentioned flutz all throughout the long night,

                     till when in that morning... we'll lipple with light!


                                      (Listen too)


                    I balanced once upon the back

                    of our purebred Gurnsey Cow,

                    and twenty seven chickens

                    the farmyard horse, a sow,

                    all gathered round to watch me strut,

                    do a cartwheel, show my stuff.

                    I spun upon her slippery ribs

                    and pranced up on her spine

                    then swung out on her twisted horns

                    did a back flip, (of a kind)

                    and landed by her feet with ease,

                    to stare into her placid eyes.

                    She didn't seem to mind, you know,

                    her eyes showed not a care,

                    she mooed and with her lumpy tongue

                    licked my face, my hair,

                    until I hollered, "That enough,

                    don't you know your tongue is rough?"

                    And so I kicked her in the rump

                    and locked her in a stall

                    until she learns some manners--

                    I can't stand rude cows at all!




                      Poppies boom blasting

                      in a back yard,

                      crackling blam like red jam;

                      smack dab and dabbed back

                      till the rubied snickle snackle

                      clicked and clacked,

                      rattatat, rattatat...

                      Then those blooming Bolshevicks

                      fisst and fust

                      (as they must)

                      like lightning rust!


                    When a cow goes shopping in the mall

                    she must beware of fragile things,

                    for though she saunters fashionably

                    her milk-filled udder often swings

                    and knocks the merchandise askew,

                    which makes her blush... as it would you.


                      BASEBALL AT OUR DIAMOND DAIRY

                      Our cows play baseball in a field

                      and wear a pitcher for a shield,

                      one upon each milk-filled udder

                      as around the bags they scutter.

                      And if a pitcher often balks

                      or throwing balls, 5 cows she walks:

                      they pass that pitcher to the team

                      to fill it up with milk and cream.

                      Yet if she still can't put cows out

                      they know we'll stall the game, no doubt,

                      and so that pitcher they implore

                      to pour it on some more and more

                      until she gets in licks or two

                      and heckles batters with her moo.

                      Our milking hands then clap with glee

                      right up until the time of three

                      when by those hands the play is stalled

                      and both teams have their milk recalled.

                      And thus our cows play very merry

                      baseball at the diamond dairy.



                      SPRING'S SPRUNG HE SUNG

                (Listen to spring-sprung audio recording)


                      In the spring

                      the blue birds sing

                      and the rich red robins

                      bip and bop,

                      and hip and hop

                      looking for that wibbly worm.

                      The little lambs and goats and calves

                      spin in turn

                      and bip and bop,

                      and hip and hop

                      through the green grown field;

                      and the spring sprung trees yield

                      cotton soft buds and those light lime leaves.

                      The winter sky no longer grieves

                      the earth with brittle cold

                      but the pale sun grows bold

                      and gold

                      and spanks the earth with his high hot hand

                      until she brawls and dances,

                      shouts and prances

                      through bird and beast and bud;          

                      then from her mud,

                      where the sun's gold hands dig deep,

                      she shakes her flowers from their sleep

                      till they riot in color and upward sweep!


                      So it is that all the spring

                      shows her seasonal ravishing!


    (Click here to listen to a wallypadoozed recording)


                  All the dingle brown                        

                  and hay derry derry cows,                  

                  warm in the simple simmer of the sun,       

                  chew now, hay now, and the blue blue       

                  of funny little flowers                     

                  winking nod, and blinking blips            

                  in the fern green lick of grasses.          

                  While all the boy calvey, girl calvey

                  little cow lads and pink cow lassies

                  romp merry go round, round,                 

                  merry go..                                  

                  And I sit to fee fie and a fiddle on words

                  and sigh into this cow breath day

                  at the sight of the smell of this high hay feast

                  which crowns all the crazy cow folk

                  with the fine fragrance

                  moo mother's make all the more milk warm

                  and little calf delicious

                  as the sapphire blue

                  of the sea and skies swirls in the eyes

                  big brown and long looking.

                  I'm a hay jolly jolly to be

                  in this hot hazel day with words

                  wide to wing-wise

                  for a simon-pure, mild munching,

                  cow country consort,

                  with my little lyric children

                  ear-shouting, "Ring now, sing now!"

                  romping merry go round, round,

                  merry go..



                  (Listen to a rallicking, rollicking rocking horse audio)


                       Upon a rocking horse I rode

                       until the big moon fell

                       and sang about that silver fish

                       which lives within my well.

                       The very well my true love knew

                       before she sprouted wing,

                       the well in which an old man spat

                       before the 5th of spring.

                       He spat and sprouted tiny horns

                       upon his hoary head,

                       and ate his food out in the yard

                       and made the hay his bed.

                       The well turned gray, and after, black,

                       and no love in it shone,

                       until I caught that silver trout

                       which lives but to atone.

                       The famous trout of fairy tales

                       which swam the Balkan sea,

                       I caught upon a golden pin

                       and brought it home with me.

                       I put it in a milk white dish

                       and threw it in the air,

                       until it fell upon the well

                       and tumbled down in there.

                       It was the 7th of the fall

                       (the day my true love died),

                       the fish went down, her soul went up

                       and all my heart beside.

                       And now I feed that silver fish

                       with German cheese and beer,

                       and I can see him swim down there

                       because the water's clear.    

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