Creature Features Part 2

The Fly That Wouldn’t Die

A few months after his business went bust,

And a long time after his truck turned to rust,

Gnu went to bed and tucked himself in

After polishing off a bottle of Gordon’s fine gin.

Buzz-Ard and Tur-Tel caused his business to topple

And ever since then he’d been hitting the bottle.

Each night he collapsed into his bed in a heap –

The Gordon’s was the only thing that sent him to sleep.

But then all of a sudden on one rainy night

Gnu woke from his sleep in a terrible fright

But what was the cause of this sudden fear?

Well, a fly had just dive-bombed into his ear.

Now, all Gnu wanted was to go back to sleep

So he pulled up his Tesco duvet and began to count sheep,

But the fly was still buzzing, as Gnu opened one eye

And said, “If I want some sleep, then that fly must die.”

The fly wanted to fly, because that’s what flies do,

He wanted to swoop and cry “Hot Diggedy Doo!”

He wasn’t bothered that Gnu was tired;

He was only doing what he desired.

Gnu switched on the light and said “That fly’s going to pay.”

And he picked up a can of Vitalis hair spray.

He pressed down the button and quick as a flash

The fly did a loop and hit the floor with a crash.

“Serves him right, said Gnu,

“Now to count some sheep;

Now to close my eyes again

And try and get some sleep.

“Buzz . . . buzz . . . buzz,” went the fly,

“Look Mr Gnu, I didn’t really die.

I bet you thought you were really clever;

And so just for that I’m going to buzz louder than ever.”

Gnu thought it was over, but after a while

The fly swooped back into his ear like a guided missile.

“Will this night ever end,” Gnu said with a whimper,

“If I don’t get some sleep I’ll be in a terrible temper.”

But the fly wouldn’t stop – it kept buzzing and swooping;

It flew round and around – diving and looping.

It had come into the house to get out of the rain,

And was now driving Gnu completely insane.

“That’s it! That’s the end! That’s enough of this caper!”

Gnu cried as he reached for a rolled-up newspaper.

He leapt out of bed and with a swing that went downward

Whacked the fly on its head with the Evening Standard.

“Serves him right,” said Gnu,

“He’s learned the power of the press.

Now I’ll close up my eyes

And get rid of this stress.”

“Buzz . . . buzz . . . buzz,” went the fly.

“Look Mr Gnu, I didn’t really die.

I bet you thought you were really clever;

But now I’m well-read I’ll buzz louder than ever.”

“Oh no, not again,” said Gnu, starting to cry,

“He’s like Curtis Mayfield on Epic Records – a super-fly?

There’s only one thing for it,” he said with intent,

“I’ll have to go downstairs for the insect repellent.”

Gnu charged down the stairs at a terrible rate,

For to get back to sleep he must seal this fly’s fate.

He grabbed the Boots Repel and shot up the stairs

To spray the lethal mist and catch the fly unawares.

He sprayed into his newly decorated room –

The carpet was from Malkin’s, made on a loom.

The dresser was from Ashley, the bed from IKEA

And the wardrobe was from – well, actually, I’ve got no idea.

He waited in the hall until the air was clear,

And when the buzzing stopped he let out a cheer.

“I can lie back down now on my bedroom feature;

Because that should have fixed that infernal creature.

Serves him right,” said Gnu,

“He’s learned all about gas.

Now to go back to bed

For some sleep to amass.”

“Buzz . . . buzz . . . buzz,” went the fly.

“Look Mr Gnu, I didn’t really die.

I bet you thought you were really clever;

But when I take off my gas mask I’m going to buzz louder than ever.

I must take a break here and extend my apologies

For this poem and its excess of products and accessories.

I didn’t think it through and it was never my intent

To pad it all out with so much product placement.

So, I’ll get on with this story of Mr Gnu

Without mentioning more products, if that’s alright by you.

But before I start up I need to go for a pee,

And then I think I’ll have a nice cup of Whittard’s coffee.

“I can’t stand it any more. This is driving me mad!

This fly,” screamed Gnu, “is an absolute cad!

There’s only one way to get rid of this sprite,

And that’s to blow it to pieces with dynamite.”

He ran down the stairs to cupboard under the sink.

“Hmm, this is where I last put the dynamite, I think,”

He said to himself as he fished in the cupboard

For the explosive that would blow the pesky fly heavenward.

“Here it is,” cried Gnu, trembling with glory,

The dynamite (that was placed there for the sake of this story).

He rushed back up the stairs with the fuse already lit

And opened the door, but before he could throw it . . .

BOOM!

And Gnu was blown all over the room.

The roof of the house flew up in the sky

And disappeared from view, it travelled so high.

What was left of Gnu was gathered together

And dropped in a bag that was made out of leather

The bag was placed in a wickerwork basket,

Which was then sealed up in a mahogany casket.

“Serves him right,” said a mourner,

“For jealously guarding his bed,

Because now, like that fly,

He is really quite dead.”

But after he was buried, on a cold and wet night,

Something was happening that wasn’t quite right –

The remains of Gnu were interred underground,

And inside his casket came a familiar sound.

“Buzz . . . buzz . . . buzz,” went the fly.

“Look Mr Gnu, I didn’t die.

And now I can buzz loudly for ever and ever

Because after all that it was me who was clever.”

Next week: The Lizard’s Dislike of Gizzards

Creature Features Part 1

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away I wrote a poem called The Fly That Wouldn’t Die for a friend of mine’s nephew and niece. They loved it and demanded it to be read to them again and again and again. I didn’t come back to it until 2001, when I wrote The Gnu Who Said Poo for my own children. I changed the characters in Fly to tie in with Gnu and that gave me the idea of starting a cycle of nine poems part way through the story and ending it exactly where it started. It wasn’t a new idea – I’d seen the very same construct in the film Pulp Fiction – but I thought if that idea was good enough for Quentin Tarantino then it was good enough for me to steal. I came back to it again over the last couple of years and tidied it up and now here it is spread out over nine weeks.

The Gnu Who Said Poo

Mr Gnu had a business to run,

From his truck he delivered manure by the ton.

He delivered to farms, to gardens and the like

And when his truck wasn’t working he delivered it by bike.

“His manure is incredible!” one customer did vent,

“Surely it must contain some secret ingredient!”

“Rubbish!” roared Gnu. “It’s all very natural,

It’s organic and perfect for all things pastoral.”

Word of Gnu’s magnificent by-product

Spread over bridges and even a viaduct –

From the gardener who was using it for his rose bed,

To the farmer who had settled way down in the Med.

Adverts appeared on more than one TV station

Declaring that Gnu was an overnight sensation.

But as his wealth and his stature exponentially accrued,

So did his ego. In short – he became rude.

He was obnoxious and surly and often pedantic,

But his customers regarded him as merely eccentric.

He was the king of manure, untouchable, he thought –

But that was before his delivery to The Court.

The Court was the place where a kind of royalty did dwell,

The home of Mr Buzz-Ard and Mr Tur-Tel.

They were rich and powerful and had great influence

Throughout the land where Gnu sold his unique effluence.

Gnu was dressed in clothes made of leather,

And he delivered his manure in all kinds of weather.

Last week he’d been crushed by a hit-and-run driver –

But that didn’t stop him – he’d do anything for a fiver.

He pulled up to the gates of The Court in his truck

That was loaded to capacity with his fine smelling muck.

A bell on the gate announced his arrival,

Which was answered in time by a lizard called Nigel.

“I’ve been stood at this gate for what seems like a week,”

Said Gnu, thinking Nigel was a bit of a freak.

He was wrong, for Nigel was somewhat reserved.

“Have patience,” said the lizard, “and you will be presently served.”

“Now, how can I help you?” Nigel asked, his eyes moving furtively.

“I’ve a truck load of manure!” Gnu replied over-assertively.

“I can see that,” said Nigel, “but for whom is it for?”

“It’s for whomever,” said Gnu, “lives behind that big door.”

Gnu grunted and pointed to the big door of The Court.

“Ah,” said Nigel, “it’s just what I thought.

Mr Buzz-Ard did indeed make an order

For manure to spread on his hyacinth border.”

“Wait here,” said the lizard, “and I shall go off to tell

Of your arrival to Masters Buzz-Ard and Tur-Tel.”

Gnu wasn’t happy at being made to wait longer,

And his usual dark mood began to grow increasingly stronger.

Time is Money was a maxim that Gnu was once taught,

And he was wasting his time waiting outside The Court.

He believed he was better than everyone else –

Especially the likes of the Buzz-Ards and Tur-Tels.

It was over an hour before the lizard came back

And Gnu’s darkening mood had by this time turned black.

“I have discovered,” said the lizard, “Mr Tur-Tel,

But I’m afraid he is asleep down by the well.”

“If Tur-Tel is too tired then speak to Buzz-Ard,”

Gnu said very curtly to the stately lizard.

Nigel was hurt by Gnu’s unseemly wrath

And he turned with a flourish and walked back down the path.

When Nigel returned another hour had gone by

And Gnu felt his brain was beginning to fry.

“I have discovered,” said the lizard, “Mr Buzz-Ard,

But I’m afraid he’s asleep at the back of the yard.”

“I don’t care where they are! I don’t care where they’re sleeping!”

Cried Gnu, whose temper was now really peaking.

“Take a message, will you, to those idle two,

And tell them that Mr Gnu is here with the poo!”

“Gracious me!” said the lizard. “You said poo – not manure!

You’re a rough-spoken beast with the mouth of a sewer.

My masters are refined, such a word they’d not utter –

So you can turn round your truck and go back to the gutter!”

Now Gnu climbed into his truck, shouting and screaming

Words that would have embarrassed a cab driver from Ealing.

But as he drove home he had no idea of the mess

Buzz-Ard and Tur-Tel would make of his business.

They spread the word around town that Gnu was offensive,

That his manure was sub-standard and far too expensive.

His business declined because of this chatter

And the townsfolk stopped listening to his usual patter.

Orders were cancelled and his business went bust,

His truck went unused and soon turned to rust.

He stayed in his house and sank into depression,

Unaware he’d been taught a very valuable lesson.

Being rude is not big, it’s not clever or funny.

It cost Mr Gnu a whole lot of money.

His manure was still produced daily – by the ton – lots of it,

But he was now deeply (and literally) well in the debt of a local farmer.

I know what you’re thinking – that last line didn’t rhyme –

And, honestly, I’m working on it – I just need more time.

But if you’ve any suggestions for a substitute conclusion,

Please keep them to yourself – or, preferably, lose them!

Next week: The Fly That Wouldn’t Die