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View original poems by Richard Doyle, available in 8 X 10 in. classy frames with glass front, on specially designed cream paper with tan & white daisies.


The Gods of the Copybook Headings (Translation)

As I ponder my early life lessons 
throughout every age and place
I voice my doubting concerns
to the Gods of the Progressive Race
Worshipping them through reverant hands
I watch them flourish then fall,
Then humbly fall back on core values 
as they've proven to outlast them all.

From the early days of our existence 
basic truths were there to learn.
As sure as “Water will wet us”,
and “Fire will certainly burn”.
But these were way to simple,
so boring there had to be more,
So we left those to the “Simpletons”
as we followed the “Intellect’s” lore.

We climbed aboard their bandwagon
for they always had a “Cause”
Neither stagnant or disappearing,
the Progressives would never pause.
Regardless of global advances
we’d soon hear their bickering tone
Like “Man is melting our Ice Caps”,
or “The lights have gone out in Rome.”

Falsely assuming Progressives 
were utterly out of touch,
We continued to be preached the basics 
like the Moon was not cheese from the Dutch,
They denied there were magical horses, 
They denied that Pigs had Wings.
But alas the people still worshipped
Progressives who promised these things.

When Cambrian Progressives of Wales
portrayed a world of perpetual peace,
They swore if we gave up our weapons,
the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed they deceived us,
then delivered us to our foe.
And the Conservatives said "We told you,"
“Stick to the Devil you know.”

Upon the podiums of Feminism,
they promised a Fuller Life
Which started with “Loving thy neighbor”,
but ended with “Loving his wife.”
Till the women had no more children,
and the men lost reason and faith
And the Conservatives again proclaimed
“The Wages of Sin is Death”.

Since days gone by we're promised
of abundance for one and for all
By robbing the wealthy “Peter”,
to pay for the collective “Paul”
But even though there was money,
there wasn’t a thing to buy,
Because the lazy all stopped working,
and the rest said “Why even try?”

So the Progressive kingdom crumbled
as their slick talking leaders withdrew,
And hearts of the staunchest Progressives,
were humbled again by these truths,
That “All that glitters is not gold”,
and “Two plus two equals four.”
So it’s back to Conservative basics
to be taught to the masses once more.

But alas be prepared in the future,
for it’s the same since the birth of Man,
There are only four things that are certain
since Social Progression began:
That “The dog returns to his vomit”,
and “The sow returns to her mire”,
and “The burnt fools bandaged finger,
gets burnt once again by the fire.”

For time and lessons will pass us,
and history will repeat once again.
When all men are paid for “existing”,
and no man must pay for his sins.
As surely as “Water will wet us”,
and surely as “Fire will burn.”
Progressives will march upon us
to destroy once again what we’ve learned.

Adapted from Rudyard Kipling’s “The God’s of the Copybook Headings” by Richard Doyle


The Gods of the Copybook Headings

(Original by Rudyard Kipling)

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!





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Nonrefundable Gift ©

I received a gift that I couldn't return.
The more I used it, the more I burned.

There are no directions on how it is used.
And most of the time the gift is abused.

At times it is wasted as I watch it just sit.
But it still grows in value the older I get.

When first I received it there seemed like a lot.
And the more I used it, the wiser I got.

I can share it with others or keep it all mine.
I wish I had more of this gift called...


- Richard Doyle -


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First Summer Love ©

The senses of summer immediately came back
When I uncovered my mitt from an old garage rack.
The sights, the sounds, the feel of the leather.
The taste, the smell, the warmth of the weather.

I could smell the humidity, and oh how I'd lust
For the aroma of leather, popcorn and dust.
I could taste the dirt, and a big wad of gum.
Or the post game treats, we always had some.

The crack of the bat, coach yelling from third,
Mom and dad cheering, once again they were heard.
A weathered old bench, the feel of the grass,
The sting of the bat relived from my past.

I could see my old number and name on my shirt,
An umpire at home plate sweeping the dirt.
The senses came back with one "pop" of the glove.
Oh how I remember my first summer love.

- Richard Doyle -


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Coach ©

They came with eager hearts, to play a game they love,
Brandishing their uniforms, baseball bats, and gloves.
Eager to learn, they had no skills, they could not hit or run.
Until with patience and some care, you taught them to have fun.

At times they lacked attention, they giggled, or they cried.
At times you watched in marvel, as they hit, or caught pop flies.
At times you had to holler, "Drop the flowers and the dirt!"
At times you lent a hand, to wipe a tear if they got hurt.

The score it never mattered, as long as they played their best.
Giving their all and having fun, would pass the "winners" test.
Through faded years and grayer hair, a champion you may not boast.
More important in the hearts of all the kids, you'll forever be their "Coach"!


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Barber Shop ©

Saturday mornings just me and grandpop
Would venture on down to the barber shop.
A ring of the bell when we entered the door,
A friendly hello and a hair covered floor.

A wink and a smile to the rest of the gang.
And from the rack in the corner Pop's hat would hang.
An unsteady walk to the chair we'd go
With a cane in one hand, and grandson in tow.

“Old Man Riley” was perched in the chair
Awaiting a shave with a foam covered beard.
A penny for a gumball, I'd chew away
While the barber solved the problems of the day.

After an hour of talk it was that time again.
We left without haircuts, a shave, or a trim.
You see grandpop’s head was as bald as they come.
He was just spending time with his favorite grandson.

- Richard Doyle -


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