h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Grimley Moer, Oh Grimley Moer
Fair, barren marshy spot
from whence didst raise such nonsense
that it nearly lost the plot.

The dextrous use of made up words
the deft and skillful rhyming
seldom frequent simulposts
a master class in timing.

The Robin cried with joy for he
who'd got the ballad going
inspite - that is - of his walk on part
that kept him to and fro-ing.

Oh fraptuous day, calloo callay
come hear my beamish boy
eh hem, you're breaking copyright
with a Jabberwock decoy.

We do not need to beg and steel
nor pinch the words of others.
Theres nonsense 'nuff to do the rounds
from this doughty band of brothers.

On, on once more and on again
on, on 'cross Grimley Moer.
Where Dandy waits his maiden fair
- the green skinned knicker shower.

Chaiwallah has a problem and
It's here for all to see,
Whether to go west shipwards
Or to find the Flergel Flea,
Whatever, real-time work requires
He has a cup of tea.

The prospect of a day he'll spend
Adorning plates with fish -
It brings the cash, though not so flash
Or plentiful as he'd wish,
Although there's pleasure to be had
In making a useful dish.

Meanwhile his brain in rhyme refrains
From turning into salad,
But by his looks, his got his hooks
Ensnared deep in this ballad,
That's why he gets no sleep at night
And now looks pale and pallid.

Enough enough, this dreadful stuff
Upon the page keeps pouring,
Compassion too for the reader who
Will find this grimly boring.

He's off, "goodbye" you hear him cry
He'll visit Grimley later,
To hound the Sage across the page
Whose world is his theater,
Or go to sea or dump the Flea
Deep in some dark dead crater.

Well Snockerty has had his tea
Of work though he's done little
He may do some, but might do none
How's that for non-committal

In fear of being overlooked
I felt it worth my stating
the need to speak and write in verse
is growing not abating.

You see how serious this is!
If only one had means,
That's of the rich and private kind
One could write endless scenes
And never have to leave the joys
Of Grimley's gorgeous Greens.

But writing this is such a drug,
As is the laughter too,
And never knowing quite what other
Writing minds will do,
Except to say another day
Is slipping out of view,
And even time spent reading it
Leaves other pots to stew.

Aunt Wurpeegle is always pleased
To see her niece return
But this time Aunty W
Has quite a funny turn

"How can you be returning when
You didn't even leave?
You're still in bed," Wurpeegle said
"I simply don't believe"

Anhrondulous expultivation
Kept them from the stairs
Where they had sought to go to sort
The tangled time affairs

"Upstairs in bed?" The maiden said
"Can you be sure it's me?"
"Yes, yes my dear and now I fear
I may have burned the tea"

An old man on a chronobike
Reversed along the hall
"Don't go upstairs if you have cares
For anything at all!"

So where the story goes from here
I cant pretend to know
She';s been to Inverness and back
And yet she's yet to go

She's standing in the doorway while
She's fast asleep in bed
These chronological conundrums
Could become widespread

What happens if she meets herself?
Who would know what to say?
Perhaps she could just smile and ask
"Well how am I today?"

One thought occurs to me that may
Just work, though untested
The one upstairs is Brigit while
The one down here's Bridgéd

The doppelganger stirred and rose
and drawing back the curtains
permitted light to come within
on a scene so far from certain.

She brushed her tooth and licked her brow
then flossed between her toes
then weighed down 'neath the weight of grace
blew long and hard, her nose.

Where she went from here was still
within the fates own lap
Whatever was the outcome though
there was no going back.

A Dandy fit, a Dandy fair
was bearing adverse weather
champing at his dandy bit
and straining at his teather
while pvc clad lamputloofs
teased him with a feather.

These kinky games, these on goings strange
were of a new dimension
that swore to break the language code
and muck with verb declensions.

For why, oh why, must those who write
make epics so distorted?
Simple answer, sure enough,
so Bridgéd can be sorted.

If she should meet herself therein
our plans of love eternal
would melt into a fiery pit
of nasty things infernal.

By making such a dreadful mess
an "other peoples problem"
it lets us skip right past it all,
in other words to rob them!

These words you speak are very true
It helps to get along
If more than of each there are
Then no one can be wrong

The Sage now did as Sages do
And got his act in gear,
He forward-thrusts the chronobike
Without a trace of fear,

( Just like young Albert when he poked
His stick in 't lions ear)
And ripples down Wurpeegle's hall
And finds his exit clear.

He was determined he would be
The first to find the gold
He has his eye on Bridged
Even though so very old,

Coz it's amazing when you're ancient
How your wealth can make you bold,
And many a busty Tecksan blonde
To an aged wraith is sold -
At least that's what the Sage now hopes
His future lines may hold.

But in another loop of time
A Power is still at work,
Who, like a Throne, all on its own,
Is quite a spiteful jerk.

He sees the Sage for what he is -
An old and dirty man -
Frustrating Sage's sordid schemes
Is now this Power's plan.

The Sage, of course, you will recall
Was once a minor god,
But mingling with humankind
He'd lost his soul, poor sod,

Half human, half immortal, he was
Neither fish nor fowl,
But hung around East Grimley
Never chucking in the towel.

We'll have to give him that, at least
He is a great old tryer,
And till he meets the Grimley Beast
We can't put out his fire.
And anyway, he may yet have
To help to gild the Spire.

A ripple in the fabric of
The multiverse occurred
And into it the chronobiker
Went without a word.

Such ripples in the fabric of
The cosmic towels tear
Peculiar pieces off the lesser
Cosmic underwear.

<>
This may affect the Brigdeds but
To that I cannot swear,
As I have to cook my supper
And then to the pots repair.

I'll see you all much later when
I think I'll take the air
Upon the ship that's sailing west
With our heroic pair
<>

Suffice to say the Sage had been
Transported from the crypt
To Aunt Wurpeegle's feather bed
And back through minutes flipped.

Surprising he survives at all
With sanity unstripped,
But then like all of us you see,
This ballad has him gripped.
He probably enjoys the buzz
Of being skull-drunk tripped.

A game of cricket going on
On Grimley Village Green
Has been in play since Christmas day
In fourteen-seventeen

The Keeper of the Green is
Also keeper of the score
But he lost count one winters night
In eighteen twenty-four

But no-one seems to notice
And nobody seems to care
So long as no-one ever wins
It's boring but it's fair

Come rain or shine the game goes on
That's how its' meant to be
The umpire's even taken root
Beneath the Reeren Tree

The Reeren Tree's the tallest tree
In Grimley by a yard
It smells a little odd and getting
Up it can be hard

They used it as a lookout post
Because it grew so high
And people from around these parts
They call it Grimleys eye

Twas planted by the vicar
Back in sixteen sixty-three
There's always someone going up
The vicars Reeren Tree

WIKKID WIKKID BAD SNOCKY

Well it's after midnight, I've just finished painting a zillion fish on a squillion plates, loaded me kiln, and am now off, no, not to bed, but to see how things are going at sea. Madness, I tell you, it's madness folks.......

The robin's seeking recompense
He struts about in rage;
It seems he has a gripe against
The mo-time-biking Sage

"That Sage can't tell his soup from sick"
He spits, with angry eye
"He's got the wrong end of the stick
About that beetle pie!

"He passes judgement over me
And won't let me forget it;
If he could find page one he'd see
It was the fox that ate it"

The night is fair, the Moon with flair
Shines down upon the sea,
Where the ship that holds our heroes trips
Like lice along the lee.
The Captain's crap but she, the ship
Is sweet as sweet can be.

Below the forepeak, in the gloom
The Eagle's catching breath,
He's flown from near by Loughborough
Or was it Inverneth?
Whatever, he's exhausted, weak,
Sea-sick and feels like death.

"You've got to get us out of here,"
Young Dandy promptly pleaded,
"And that before the morning watch
When starboard will be needed.
I don't know where Ms. Joice has gone,
My calls have gone unheeded.

I've heard she's in a stateroom aft
The purser feeds her beagle,
So maybe she could help us out..."
"Now, listen," said the Eagle.

"I've got to sleep, right now and deep
So get back in your bunk,
I'm up your nose, tomorrow 'spose
We leave, so pack your trunk.

"You haven't heard a word I've said,"
The Dandy muttered more,
"I haven't got a trunk, nor clothes,
As Joice says, it's a bore,
They took my stuff in Shipling Greep
Before you hit the floor."

The Eagle yawned, his head had spawned
A glorious velvet sleep,
Tomorrow there'd be time to tell
His tale since Shipling Greep,
Let Dandy know of Bridged's love
New blossomed, rare and deep.

"So what's your game, my lad?" the voice
That sailor's dread to hear,
The Bosun on his nightly round
Approaching from the rear.

"Oo was you talking to, just then,
You better tell me straight
Or you'll be on the grating with
The nine-tailed cat, old mate."

Of course by now the Eagle was
Asleep in Dandy's nose
And nothing could arouse him till
The morning sun arose.

"Me? No-one, honest," Dandy said,
You must have been mistaken,
I often mutter to myself
And sleep talk e'er I waken."

"I seen 'im, Bosun, talking to
Some strange exotic bird,"
The galley Cook gave D a look
Like treacle slowly stirred.

"I seen 'im, 'e must be a freak,
Or else 'e's bleedin' mad,
Let's chuck 'im overboard right now
'E'll bring us luck all bad.

There is no words for them 'as birds,
As worst as it can be.
The only thing to do with 'em
Is chuck 'em in the sea."

The Bosun, like a hurricane,
Swept down on Dandy's hopes,
"So let's us have a little chat
Before we ties some ropes.

Now, what's this bird that Cookie heard
And where's it bleedin gone?
It's either meat that's fit to eat
Or a bet to gamble on,

Well, either way we wants it now
So tell us quick, my son.
I'll count to three, believe you me,
I'll lash you to a gun,
And then you'll really wish that you
Had never shipside come."

"I can't explain, it's all in vain"
Thought Dandy feeling weak,
He tried to think of something but
What came out was a squeak.

"What's that?" the Bosun loomed so huge
His fists round Dandy clenched,
His piggy eyes showed no surprise
As Dandy gasped and blenched.

"Just chuck 'im overboard, go on,
I fink 'is bird's escaped."
"Nah, can't do that, he's got to work,
The Captain's got him taped.

Tomorrow morning, bring him aft
We'll hear what yarn he tells,
We'll find out what it's all about
This bird of his, or else.
The Captain should be interested,
He'll thrash him at eight bells."

Poor Dandy didn't sleep that night
Not even on his watch,
And from his bunk, he saw the hunk,
The Bosun, swigging Scotch.

Poor Dandy lay within his bunk
And contemplated Fate,
Which was rather finely balanced
Between hope and pain of late.

The grimey Cook, a sycophant
The kind who likes to lurk
Within a bully's shadow now
Made watching him his work.

"You've got it coming, mate," he said
And grinned a slimey grin
"Just wait until you're on the grate
And lose a lot of skin.

I'd say you'll get a score or two,
I fink the Bosun said,
He's chatted to the Captain
So you might as well be dead -
We don't like Jonahs on this ship -
Or else my name ain't Fred."

So what could poor old Dandy do
Within this karmic clinch?
For like most shanghai'd sailors he
Just couldn't swim an inch,
And Eagle couldn't help him now
Asleep. Awake? Well anyhow
They'd have him in a pinch.

Now aftwards, roughly fifty yards,
In stateroom number two,
Miss Joicelyne Vere de Speightall
Felt inclined to Take the View.
The night was dark, the ancient bark
Dripped slowly west, like glue,
The waning Moon, a silver spoon,
Tried hard to smile on cue.

"Poor Buggirduck, my darling boy,
You didn't like the dark,
How is his mum's poor beagle?"
Felt like a porbeagle shark.

For Buggirduck the heaving seas
The biscuits and the gin
Had strained his guts and bladder
And he'd had to just give in -
House training rules did not apply
A sailing ship within.

So all in all a little fresh
Air was, well, overdue.
So Joicelyne called the Purser
Who, uncertain what to do,
Said, "Sorry miss, your lock is stuck.
I'll have to ask the crew
To call the Carpenter. It's late,
It's nearly half-past two."

Miss Joicelyne de Speightall was
Well, made of sterner stuff,
She knew her rights, not shy of fights,
Enough was quite enough.

Besides this wretched little tub
Belonged, in part at least,
To seventh cousin Crunkleigh's
Company that traded East.

"Now look here, little man," she said
And rang the cabin bell,
"You'd better get the Captain
Or I'll have your job as well."

"I didn't have to come by ship,"
She called out frostily,
"I could have flown my buggy to
The Isles of Blaggerty,

Except the wretched Luddites there
Would throw it in the sea."
"As we will you," the Purser thought
"If gods are good to me."

So there, for now, we leave them
Sailing westwards in the craft-
One prisoner down forrard
And the other one back aft.

Poor Dandy feared the Bosun would
Soon strip his back of skin,
The Bosun feared the Captain might
Not let him on a whim.

The Captain feared Ms Joicelyne-
He'd met her type before,
Ms. Joicelyne feared nothing
But the trip might be a bore,

oooooOOOooooo

<>

The family de Speightall was
Well, nearly rather grand.
They'd been around for ages
And had once owned lots of land.

They'd trampled on the peasants, they
Had fought on either hand,
And built on all the nicest sites
Before such things were "planned."

Their coat of arms was crested
With a nasty vicious boar
Which was glaring at a unicorn
It did its best to gore.

Miss Joicelyne's late father was
Sir Percy, tenth in line,
Whose brains were frankly paltry
But whose profile was divine -

(That's if you like receding chins,
Expressions sub-bovine,
A sunken chest, a scrawny neck
And skin like Bordo wine.)

He knew his racing horses, so
His wealth was in decline,
Until they found, beneath the ground
A rather handy mine.

A shame it was located right
Beneath the ancient hall
"We can't be sentimental," thus
It met the wrecker's ball.

But commerce has advantages,
The world is run by trade,
And family alliances
Were planned for Joice, it's said,
Though Joice had other plans
She followed, unafraid.

The Speightalls married Buggirducks
Since near the dawn of time,
Another ancient lineage
Ennobled for its crime.

Along with breeding horses they
Bred daughters for the bed
Of any passing princeling who
Might keep them clothed and fed,
And then providing bastards
Who were soon ennobel-ed.

It's like a minor industry
(Now almost not defunct)
It kept the younger sons in funds
It kept their fathers drunk.

When Joice's turn came round to join
This venerable tradition,
She just refused, point-blank to play
Sir Percy roared "SEDITION!!!

"It's not as though you haven't had
Your choice of nice young men,
You'll marry as you're told, my gel,
And I will tell you when.

You'll marry who you're told, as well,
I've fixed the date, and where..."
His face went black, a heart attack
Dispatched him then and there.

Mama was quite distracted and
She lost a lot of hair,
But now she's in a special place
Where staff take such good care
To see she gets just what she needs
To keep her in her chair.

It sounds a little cruel? Well
Poor Joice just couldn't cope.
One can't keep dotty Mummy
Hobbled like a horse with rope.

She'd wander off all round the place
She might get hurt or scarred,
She might fall down the well
Beside the horse-trough down the yard.

Now Joicelyne lives cozily
Enough, when all is said,
In the gate-lodge where her ancestors
Had loved, and fought and bled.

She might be slightly lonely
But enjoys her private means,
The mine keeps trundling along,
She visits foreign scenes.


Dear Buggirduck's good company
And so's her cat, Pralines.
She's getting lots of local help,
She's handy with machines.
She's not a gel to trifle with
Nor has been since her teens.

As an aside, it should be said that
while open to flattery
she gets her thrills on lonely nights
from devices powered by battery.

In fact I'm not so sure at all
She feels that way. Of course
I may be wrong, I think that she
Is happiest on a horse.

Regarding matters conjugal
She is most likely chaste,
She doesn't have much truck with stuff
"Down there" below the waist.
Her energies to charities
And riding are displaced.

She's awfully fond of Buggirduck -
That doesn't mean to say
She'd ever do a thing with him
That wasn't normal play.

I have to say I see her quite
Distinctly, yes indeed,
As a woman over sixty and
A cylinder in tweed.

oooooOOOooooo

In Which the Aged Sage of Grimley
Discovers the Necessity of Pure Intentions.

Once more the Sage took to the air
Upon the chrono-bike,
Having realised intention
Was the way to chrono-hike.

It wasn't quite enough to think
"I'll go from from Ay to Bee,"
The mind should be exclusively
On target - Flergel Flea.

Well, that's what the Sage was thinking as
He flipped the retro crystal
And the chrono bike took off, unlike
A bullet from a pistol.

It made no sound at all, there was
A sort of gloopy plub,
But nothing to disturb the Grimley
Cricket, nor the pub.

You may have often wondered what
It's like to trip through time,
Pin back your ears and listen,
And as much as fits in rhyme
The Sage's chrono stages will
Now tackle the sublime.

Remember we are dealing with
A rather greebly sort
Who has lived through seven ages
Of the normal life, so short.

For most of that he's sat and just
Immersed himself in thought,
Except for odd appearances
In Grimley Circuit Court.

He's aged, and he's twisted and
He's greedy, none too kind,
But there's one thing that he knows and that's
The windmills of his mind.
He knows some other, stranger things
On which we'll drop the blind.

The chrono-bike ( yes yes, its there )
Slipped effortlessly down
Through transcendental levels
Past the purple and the brown
To where the inner eye beheld
The place where egos drown.

It is an inner ocean, and
So luminously vast
That the normal mind can't hack it and
Attempts to get out fast,
But here the Sage's skills paid off,
He surfed the waves he passed.

The chrono-bike's a surf-board which
If properly aligned
Allows the user's body to
Accompany the mind,
Which is why it must be focussed
And so accurately inclined.
If not, the rider's sanity
Will rapidly unwind.

The Sage, we know, has had some trips
Which almost came unstuck
He got back home to Grimley less
By skill and more by luck,
It's not much fun when you are run
Over by chrono-truck.

So now you get the picture and
The theory should be clear,
The Sage has got a modest chance
He'll land in some god's ear
Or else come back to Grimley Crypt
By way of blastomere.* (*embryo.)

He settled in the silence of
The interneural void
Where emptiness is endless and
The brain is unemployed.

He set his mind on impulse mode
And slipped the bike in gear
And found he'd spun the crystals round
And nothched them into fear.

The silence rushed into his mind
As solid as a rock,
That stretched beyond infinity
And had him in a lock.

The universe began to press
Right on his very skin
And he desperately scrambled
To recalibrate "Begin."

Awareness shrunk down to a spot
Within his absent soul
His mind was stretched, yet squeezed and pressed
Into a dead "black hole,"
Pure nothingness, the terminus,
A psychic vacuole.

"I'll be alright," he tried to think,
"If I can get some sleep,"
But yet some part of him still knew
He languished in the deep.

The chrono-bike now held him tight
And locked into that thought,
He spent eternities within
It, now completely caught.

"I'll be alright, " he tried to think,
"If I can get some sleep..."
And round and round, a dreary sound
This thought its course would keep.

And there he might have lingered
Frozen until time ran out,
If he had not been spotted by
A psychic talent scout.

The Scout was quite a character,
Not old, but not so young,
His hair was white and thinning but
His robes with gold were strung,
And his voice, the Sage thought later,
Sounded like an angel sung.

"You're stuck," the Scout said frankly, "Do
You need a push, or tow?"
The Sage was suddenly himself,
He said,"I do not know."

"What happened here? I slipped a gear,
I died? Was I in Hell?"
"Not quite," the Scout replied, "I think
You missed, it's just as well.

You're in a psychic limbo where
Your sort are often found,
That's why I come down here to see
If rock-stars are around,

I kind of like the music and
They sometimes come unstuck,
When hit by the equivalent of
A transgalactic truck.

I've artists, and musicians and
Some writers on my books,
And sometimes monks and sages who
Have slipped their psychic hooks.

They often stay quite briefly, then
Their bodies call them back.
But you've come on your chrono-bike,
That's harder to re-track.

So where is it your going now?
Come close and let me see.
Hmm, off to pilfer gold from some
Unpleasant Flergal Flea.

It's not my job to criticise,
But if you'll take advice,
You'll go straight back to Grimley Moer,
I've heard its very nice,
Specially at this time of year,
And cheap at half the price."

The Scout gave Sage a withering look,
Which seemed to say, "How sad,
That such a practised mind as this
Had gone so far to bad.
If only it were cleared away
He felt it would be glad."

"One thing you need to know, old chap,
If you must travel deep,
You need to keep your focus
And you need to get more sleep.

Your motivation matters once
You're down here on the edge,
And greed for gold you should have left
Behind you "on the ledge."

A parachronofundulum
Is what you think you need,
Success with that depends on your
Correct trans-psychic speed.

A chrono-bike will take you just
As far as you can know,
You've gone too fast, you've been outclassed,
So next time, travel slow.
The mind must just be left behind,
Or right where you would go."

The Scout said, "There, I've finished,
It's advice you may not like,
That's tough, I'm off." He mounted his
Recumbent psycho-bike.

"Goodbye," he waved and disappeared,
The Sage thought, "Now I've flipped,"
But next he knew, you're right, he flew
Back down in Grimley Crypt.