Super city oxymoronic

03/04/2009

Down here, that mass north of the Bombay Hills where more than a quarter of our population crawls along congested roads is already one city and the boundaries between local bodies appear to be academic.

However, it’s rarely regarded as super.

People closer to the action – or inaction if you happen to be caught in a traffic jam – have another view, or indeed a range of views, of the metropolis and how many mayors it takes to run it.

However, premature though it might be given a decision on Auckland’s future form is some time away, books have opened on who’s likely to be the mayor should the little municipalities become one and my money is on Jam Hipkins:

Into the ring my hat I fling.
As Lord Mayor of the City
Imposing rules, ignoring fools
Decisive, tough … and gritty
I’ll put the wind up this city’s sails
As helmsman of your galleon
For, ‘pon my blood
This Mayoral stud
Will stand as your Lord Stallion
Bestriding all those lesser Mayors
Like Sir Tristram (wearing trousers)
I’ll bring you aid
On my Hero’s Parade
And terrify the wowsers
Lord Stallion, Super City – ME!!!!!
No tosser North Shore prick
You want it? YES!!!!
Then come, my friends
Sir Hipkins needs your tick!!!!!!!


Festive verses from Jam Hipkins

05/12/2008

Jim Hopkins gives us a peek at some festive verses from Jam Hipkins:

May Santa give you gifts galore
Some socks, some soap, and much, much more
But, fingers crossed, now things are black
Let’s hope he won’t give you the sack!

There’s more here.


But Miss . . .

26/09/2008

The esteemed poet lauretae Jam Hipkins has lost is heart to the teacher who is moonlighting as a prostitute:

I love your lacy algebra

You ease my present tense

I regard your pleasure’s syntax

As a meagre recompense

For the poetry you’ve taught me

Writ on scented, satin sheet

In our one-on-one night classes

Where we shared our rhyming feet.

If my woodwork is improving

If, perchance, I top your class

It is you, sweet Cupid’s tutor

Who has shown me how to pass

Small wonder, then in Flaxmere

With no teacher of the night

That lonely boys’ testosterone

Can fuel a fiercesome fight.

But do not give them homework

Save love’s lessons just for me

You are the moon’s curriculum

You are my chemistry

If I’m A plus in the boudoir

Then I thank your lesson plan

I went in in short trousers

And I staggered out a man!

“Well, what do you think?” the laureate pleaded. “Will it work?”

“Perhaps,” I said sadly.

“But you may have to pay her to listen.”

You can read the rest of Jim Hopkins’ column here.

For other views on the issue:  Read the rest of this entry »


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