AUGUSTUS YOUNG        light verse, poetry and prose

  a regular webzine of new and unpublished work
‘There’s no such thing as a poet. Only people who write poems.’

Smith's Family Fortunes


Dr Marcos

Moge and Bols

Dan the Dog

P'tit Frère

Saint-Hilaire and Cuvier

The White Twins


Fancy Footing

Nature Morte

Sleeping Dogs

Verse Journal


WOT: Pre-US Election Bargain, Iraq   

Since I have no principles
there's nothing to sacrifice.
Deaths can be bought for dollars. 

          If you give me the money
          I'll hand over the weapons,
          and stop being a terrorist.

No more blowing up ourselves
to change the world. Now despair
disappears into thin air. 

          If you give me the money
          I'll hand over the weapons,
         and stop being a terrorist.

Unmarked notes in body bags
exchanged for the living dead
at the border that's between
democracy and belief.

         If you give me the money
         I'll hand over the weapons,
        and stop being a terrorist.

If you do not trust us, know
there is a bomb strapped to each  
hostage and a fuse to me.
I presume you'll do likewise.

       If you give me the money
       I'll hand over the weapons,
       and stop being a terrorist.

Land Shanties

In this the Port of Venus
there's no love's lost between us
and land lubbers with bank loans,
who are colonising our homes.
More fool they
In ancient times these Vikings
with spiked helmets, and nose rings,
sailed in to steal our women.
Now they buy our homes to build on.
More fool they

Behind Land Rover bull bars,
they only talk to their builders,
raising tower blocks in the skies
for second homers who'd pay any price.
More fool they

With fish in the sea dying,
and grapes rotting on the vines,
we can't afford to refuse
a tramontane of fresh euros.
More fool they

Once the agents get their cut
we'll retire to a wine hut.
And the town will rise in height,
as a glorified building site.  
More fool they

Safe in their graves, our Old say,
'Every Babel has its day.
The apartments won't be sold. 
Who'd want to live in a hell hole?'
Praise the dead

They come from Northern Europe,
their backs a slippery slope.
Faces like official forms,
the skin the texture of corns.
You won't be met eye to eye
with a 'bonjour', nor even a 'hi'.
That's how it is

The young who can't wait to be free
of the beard of patrimony,
to hare off to gipsy nights
in Perpignan which end in riots,
say, 'You can't afford to be proud,
not being rich like the yachting crowd'.
That's how it is
'Grab what's offered on the plate.
And you ought to imitate 
how they look after themselves.
Even their grannies are svelte.' 
We end up taking the bait,
and our young in a council estate.
That's how it is

The abyss is yawning
because of global warming
and Japanese harpooning.
The European Union
won't let us go out 

The beaches are eroding.
There is a foreboding
the planet will soon cease.
Jose Bové and Greenpeace
won't let us go out

O the little fishes
are certain to miss us
as much as we miss them.
It's only wicked men
won't let us go out 

So on dry land we are
waiting to disappear
a little every year.
Like petrol. Soon the car
won't let us go out 

The Cork Renaissance

Under every stone
 there are two poets
  fighting for a bone
   to contend with. Both
  write the self same poem.
 But you'd never guess
from the words alone.  
The way of the flesh
  is all in the tone.
   which goes with the drink,
    and the strong sense of
     being chosen. You'd think,
      when push comes to shove,
     with the life they live,
    they'd be shagged enough
  to be sensitive-
like, and dry up. Love
of one another
 would bring peace that flows
  with honey, mother's
    milk, and, perhaps, prose. 
     Anything but verse
      of the free beer kind,
     the top of the bus
   after closing time,
loudmouth recitals
of self-raising Fleurs
du South or North Mall.
Throw off the tossers.