Bug reader Peter Earsman has sent us three lovely little poems he's penned. We normally eschew such kultcha but, mindful that The Bug prides itself of having something for everybody, from the crassest undergraduate humour to the crassest undergraduate humour, we thought: what the heck!

Don’t Drink from Your Sorcery

“Is there magic?” asked Katrina. eyes awide and ocean-deep,
“Are there wizards? Are there witches? Are there trolls?
Are there fairies nightly flitting in my bedroom when I sleep?
Is there secret life in all my toys and dolls?”

And I pondered for a moment, how to make my answer clear,
For in things of other worlds I seldom speak,
I am scornful of those things that some embrace and others fear,
False phenomena adhered to by the weak.

Could I sink her ship of wonder with my prejudice and scorn
When the child is every day and night surrounded
By the wonders of the universe, of things on pure wings borne,
With my own thoughts blunt, and logically grounded?

With her little mind awash with colour - a kalaidescope
It would seem I had no right to crush her dreams
And I’m sure inside her question, ‘neath the fear there hides a hope,
That the world is just as magic as it seems.

So I cupped her tender chin there in my hand and stroked her hair,
And with gentle voice I laid her doubts to rest,
How it’s all a load of garbage, and there ain’t a damn thing there,
Now go up and clean your room, don’t be a pest.

The Chameleon

She’s at the bar again tonight,
Gripping her drink like the rail of a lifeboat.
She’s been here every night for the past week,
Arriving around six and staying till eleven;
Freezing predators with a look that says,
Leave me be.
When she’s not stirring butts in her ashtray,
Or lazing her finger through spilt beer,
She’s looking at herself in the cracked Johnny Walker mirror behind the bar.
She seems around thirty
With a pleasant face, now a little distant with drink.
Perhaps her lover has left, or her husband has died.
Whatever it is, she looks like she needs a friend,
Or at least a friendly ear for an hour or two.
But I have no sympathy for anyone else.
My life is a mess.
I have sympathy only for myself.
She turns and looks directly at me,
And I look away confused by her intensity.
She picks up her drink and walks towards me,
Her hip rocking a couple of empty stools on the way.
She pauses at my side and looks into my eyes.
Don’t do it lady, I say to myself, I am empty. I have nothing for you.
She puts her drink on the bar, her hand, cold from the glass, on my arm,
You’ve been looking at me every night for a week, she says softly,
And if you don’t stop it, I’m gonna break this arm off and use it
For a swizzle-stick.

When Love is Not Enough

God handed Pete the clipboard saying, “Bring the next one in!”
And St Peter ran his finger down the list
“Hey I think the next’s a lawyer,” and he gave a cheerful grin,
“Client shot him, seems opposing counsel missed.”

Then the lawyer in his pinstripe and his shiny, tasselled shoes,
Sat across from God and Peter looking grave,
God said, “Judging from your record, you don’t have a lot to lose,
You can stay here if you promise to behave.”

“Who’s the next one Peter?” God asked, as the lawyer closed the door,
“It’s a killer, shot a priest and stabbed a nun.”
God said, “Nothing is impossible, I think he can be cured,
Let’s admit him and we’ll see what can be done.”

Then a homosexual lad was shown in, blushing and confused,
God stood up and he was angry, you could tell,
“Oh thy foul abomination who would holy writs abuse,
Loathesome wretch you’re on a one-way trip to Hell!”

“But my Lord,” began the young lad, “I’ve done nothing else but be,
Just the guy whose genes would order and commend,
If in some way my behaviour is an ugliness to Thee,
Then why make me in a way that so offends?”

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand,” the Good Lord thundered, eyes afire,
“It’s a poofter who makes love to other blokes.”
And the lad there gently answered, “Would you have of me then Sire,
Be a man who visits hate on other folks?”

“Damn your tongue and sophist’s logic,” shouted Peter standing too,
“We’ll have none of that talk, thank you very much.
It’s a straight house that we run here, we don’t need the likes of you,
Talking bonds between two fellers, love and such!”

So the homosexual boy was led away in cosmic chains,
And the Love of God around him hollow rang,
While the usurers, adulterers and thieves of others’ gains,
Laughed among the clouds while angels smiled and sang.