Happy Christmas from Hastings Battleaxe – plus a poem.

Christmas good wishes from Hastings Battleaxe!  


I’ll do Battleaxe’s take on the sorry state of the world and hopes for the New Year in the next post, which will mark the fifth ‘Blogoversery’.  In the meantime, here’s some politically incorrect seasonal 1950’s glamour – and the gorilla poem I read at the Stanza group party the other week. 

What a ridiculous combination of topics – but hey, so what.

Vintage Frederick’s of Hollywood seasonal outfits…

    Battleaxe has been busy, as is to be expected this time of year, but is now laid low with a terrible cold. Just back from a poorly couple of days in Brum. It may have been the traumas of the WI Committee Christmas meal at my house that did for me – the chicken had gone off, meaning Philosopher had to run up to Ore (or Oray as we call it now after Strictly) to fetch buckets and buckets of KFC – and then Digby burst in through the cat door carrying a live rat….
     I don’t think this poem is very good, but I hope you’ll enjoy it as a Christmas offering.
in October, Kumbuka, a 29 stone gorilla from London Zoo escaped from his enclosure through an unlocked door and drank five litres of undiluted blackcurrant
squash. He was tranquillised and returned to his quarters unharmed. In the same week, Nigel
Farage likened Donald Trump to a silverback gorilla.

     This year also, another silverback gorilla, Harambee, was shot dead in America when he approached a young child who had fallen into his enclosure.
     You may wonder why Kumbuka is so well versed in philosophy.  The poem was mostly written during our cruise. Think of me and Philosopher sipping our cocktails in the Darwin Bar before dinner, glaring suspiciously at our fellow travellers while discussing Rousseau’s theories about the intelligence of the great apes…. 
     I’ve added some photos of our gorilla hero, from the internet.

It’s all those gassy vegetables….


I like lounging on this log. Beyond the glass,

you simple creatures push and flail,

all fighting for a glimpse of me…

You believe you’re better off out there, and free,

but if you read at all, I think you’ll find

how Rousseau wrote that apes like us are

noble, nature’s truest men. Or, consider Marx’s

chains, which of course, could never bind

my liberated, uncorrupted mind.

Then Hegel on the other hand…. I know

one shouldn’t tease inferiors, but how can

I resist?  Carefully, I pick my time…

Now! While lunging forward really fast,

I bare my teeth and punch the glass…
Hear those children scream!

That reminds me of Harambee, poor departed

friend. We’ve learned from that, you know. See 
a child in trouble?  Just ignore it, look away,

even let it die. Sounds brutal, but I have to

there’s lots of you, but us gorillas? Very

Ugh, flashes in my face. Deliberately I

scratch my balls and slowly turn away.

‘Trump’ you call, ‘Let’s see you Trump!’

No trouble folks, I’ll lift my rump…

Phew, sorry, that was rich….it’s

all those gassy vegetables y’know.

Dieting is such a frightful bore,

It does nothing for my mood,

and I’m too obsessed with food.

Eesh, I had some fun the other day…..

Some idiot left my gate undone

so what was an ape to do? Well,

out I’m strolling, cool as fuck,

couldn’t quite believe my luck

as ‘KUMBUKA’ they all go… And?

You never learned my actual name. Too

hard for you to say, rather private anyway.

You labelled me ‘Kumbuka’ when I came,

like an old-time slave. I rise above the shame,

never answer. But, returning to my tale,

I just adore that ghastly purple squash,

although it ‘s own brand, rather cheap.

What am I like? It’s artificial, sickly sweet,

I swigged a bloody skinful, neat.

Whoa, sugar rush! I must have passed out cold,

next thing I know I’m back at home, with

extra cake for tea. Saw myself on telly, why does

one look so fat? Then I heard the loonies shout

‘Return Kumbuka to the wild’, ‘Let Kumbuka out!’

Such self-deceiving fools. Wake up and face the truth.

My only life is here, you’ve made me what I am,

You trash my wild, turn my rivers into sand.

Out there I’d slowly starve, or die of thirst.

You steal my kids for pets or shoot them first

for fun….. Let Kumbuka go? No bleedin’ chance.

Hey you back there….

Bring out the purple squash, and fast!

And punch the glass…..
What was it that Hegel said?

More posts about poetry:

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