The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Unofficial Measurements“.
Good afternoon Jon, and greetings, once again from Alhama de Granada, high in the mountains above the Andalucian or Andulusian coast – I have no idea which, if either is correct.
Despite a concerted effort, my command of the Spanish language has failed me yet again.
I went out to buy wine; I came back with a cod.
I ordered chilled sangria, I was served grilled goat.
My attempt to compliment our host’s house unfortunately translated as “I fancy your mother.”
She’s 96 and we are now apparently engaged.
From now on I’m sticking to charades and pointing.
Ah well, back to another ice cold glass of salted cod.
To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
Also have a listen to the songs on the New Album “Angel In Reverse”
Measurements, baffle: conversion confounds
My scales are in kilos, the recipe, pounds
How many grams in an ounce? Pints in a litre?
How many feet make up a square metre?
Beyond all the science; graphs without end
Lie units of measure we all comprehend
No need for tables: don’t need to add
Everyone knows a frag from a tad
One is a single: a couple, always two
A little more vague is what we term as a “few”
At the very least three: could be several – or not
But it’s short of a shitload, which is exactly “a lot”
A “bees dick” is tiny: around half a “flea’s crutch”
A “poofteenth” is smaller, but not very much
A crumb, not much bigger, way less than an inch
Roughly a smidgeon, which equates to a pinch
A wisp or a touch is almost a skerrick
A Warhol’s fifteen, ten’s a Bo Derek
They’re all universal, neither metric or imperial
When it’s small as a gnat’s cock, it’s all immaterial
A swig is a mouthful, more politely a sip
Unless drinking spirits, then referred to as “nip”
If added to beer it’s known as a “dash”
With whisky, the same amount is a “splash”
A snifter, or tot, are the same size of course
A tipple’s a drink -or a night on the sauce
“Say when” is a sliding scale, based on demand
While a finger of scotch depends on your hand
A matchbox as measure is long in decline
More common these days is eight ball or line
Adding money by colour doesn’t make counting worse
Two yellow perils still make a grey nurse
Four prawns make a lobster, or two Ayrton Sennas’
If you like, Pavarotti, just one of the tenors
We all know what a splodge is; you don’t have to weigh it
I can fathom a dollop, as easy as say it
Skint says it all, don’t need the amount
I can distinguish a wad, no need to count
Adding and weighing are pointless distractions
Waste half our lives counting fractions of fractions
Now a new unit, an “Abbot” by name
An Abbot, or Tony – both equal the same
A complex equation, few understand
Rate of climate change over head in the sand
Multiplied by smugglers to the power of confusion
Divide by misogyny, minus logic, plus delusion
Subtract homophobia and asinine quotes
Take out the homeless and turn back the boats
Add foot to the mouth, the findings we’ve charted
The result is a bee’s dick – we’re back where we started
© Copyright 2013 Ian Bland