Programmer, opera singer, actor, textual editor.
Well the barrel broke me shoulder, as to the ground it sped
And when I reached the top, I banged the pulley with me head
Well, I clung on tight, though numbed with shock, from this almighty blow
And the barrel spilled out half the bricks, fourteen floors below
Now, when these bricks had fallen from the barrel to the floor
I then outweighed the barrel and so started down once more
Still clinging tightly to the rope, I sped towards the ground
And I landed on the broken bricks the barrel scattered round
I lay there groaning on the ground I thought I’d passed the worst
When the barrel hit the pulley wheel, and then the bottom burst
Well, a shower of bricks rained down on me, I hadn’t got a hope
As I lay there bleeding on the ground, I let go the bloody rope
The barrel then being heavier, it started down once more
And landed right across me as I lay upon the floor
Well, it broke three ribs, and my left arm, and I can only say
That I hope you understand, why Paddy’s not at work today
Dear sir, I write this note to you, to tell you of me plight
And at the time of writing, I am not a pretty sight
My body is all black and blue, me face a deathly gray
And I write this note to say why Paddy’s not at work, today
While working on the fourteenth floor, some bricks I had to clear
Now, to throw them down from such a height, it was not a good idear
The foreman wasn’t very pleased, he being an awkward sod
He said I’d have to take them down the ladders in me hod
Now clearing all these bricks by hand, it was so very slow
So I hoisted up a barrel, and secured the rope below
But in my haste to do the job, I was too blind to see
That a barrel full of building bricks was heavier than me
And so when I untied the rope, the barrel fell like lead
And clinging tightly to the rope I started up instead
Well, I shot up like a rocket, ’til to my dismay I found
That half way up I met the bloody barrel coming down
Pianos are very heavy. Most of it is not wood, but solid iron.
Actually reminds me of a Frank King Sunday.
I keep being reminded of “The Lady’s Not For Burning”—or else the episode, “Sic Transit Vir” of “Babylon 5”. I’m not sure which.
The private bathroom is an American thing. Even in London, I’ve stayed in perfectly respectable hotels where there are only a few baths, shared among all the rooms. (However, Americans freak out when they discover this, so many hotels have converted to American style.)
I heard a good deal of it on US Public Radio in the 70s and on the BBC website more recently.
Eccles: Ummmm… yes, my good man?
Bluebottle: What time is it?
Eccles: Ummmm… uh… just a… minute. I got it uh… writted down here on uh… a piece of paper.
[This leads into a bit about as weird and about as long as “Who’s on first?”]
You’re right that it boils down to 1, but, since we don’t see the question (which apparently doesn’t actually exist, anyway) we can’t be certain; perhaps it says, “(Express as a limit.)”
English hates haiku / Syllables, like April snow, / Melt and flow away.
Nickname for the ocarina. Used to be more popular in both folk music and jazz than it is today.