AI & Fulfilment

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Nebraska

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Various Bits

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Magpie

Oh, the magpie brings us tidings
Of news both fair and foul
She's more cunning than the raven
More wise than any owl
For she brings us news of the harvest
Of the barley, wheat, and corn
And she knows when we'll go to our graves
And how we shall be born

Chorus:

One's for sorrow, two's for joy
Three's for a girl and four's for a boy
Five's for silver, six for gold
Seven's for a secret never told
Devil, devil, I defy thee
Devil, devil, I defy thee
Devil, devil, I defy thee

She brings us joy when from the right
Grief when from the left
Of all the news that's in the air
We know to trust her best
For she sees us at our labour
And she mocks us at our work
And she steals the eggs from out of the nest
And she can mob the hawk

Chorus:

The priest, he says we're wicked
For to worship the devil's bird
Ah, but we respect the old ways
And we disregard his word
For we know they rest uneasy
As we slumber in the night
And we'll always leave out a little bit of meat
For the bird that's black and white

One's for sorrow, two's for joy
Three's for a girl and four's for a boy
Five's for silver, six for gold
Seven's for a secret never told



Written by: Davey Dodds

Album: Mount the Air

Easter is Weeks Away

Easter is weeks away but Christmas is my nightmare.

I have long desired to testify against the holy weight of things,

to lay my worked on hands upon the altar

and whisper that it is lighter than it looks.

But I have testified to nothing.

The evidence dissolves in my mouth.

Proof abandons me in dim corridors

like a disgraced envoy,

like monkeys in a back room

tapping faithfully at their bright little machines.

The feasts arrive in their robes of weather.

They bow and withdraw.

No one keeps vigil

except the shopkeeper polishing his till

and the devout who kneel before a calendar

printed in red.

But the hot cross buns,

ah, they are another gospel.

They appear beside the Easter eggs

like rival messiahs sharing a shelf,

and I make no complaint.

I am not a difficult believer.

I have entered the order of the bun.

Two a day.

I have been faithful for one entire day

and already I feel the discipline

settling on my shoulders

like a modest shroud.

There are no revelations yet,

no troubling visions.

Sometimes a face emerges

from the flour and the glaze,

a human arrangement of sorrow and heat.

On the upper bun

there is a grimace, unmistakable,

angry perhaps,

or merely puzzled

by what has become of His dominion.

The cross rests there

like a question He did not mean to ask.

A comedian once murmured

that God is out of His depth now,

and I think of Him

wading into the darkened bakery

after hours,

robes damp with doubt,

searching the cooling racks

for an explanation.

And somewhere in a mythical Yorkshire village

two rival bakeries sharpen their knives of pride.

The ovens glow like minor suns.

They will call the story Top Bun,

and it will be spoken of as a comedy,

though everyone will understand

it is about hunger,

and the small, sweet wars

we wage

in the name of bread.

Anonymous.