The Cure of Folly - a definitional poem

     Meester snijt die keye ras.
     Myne name is Lubbert Das.

     Master, hurry, remove the stone!
     My name is [the fool] Lubbert Das.                                     

          The inscription appears on Bosch's painting The Cure of Folly

O man who owns or has control of a dog,
horse, or other domesticated animal...
please remove from my head
the hard, solid, non-metallic substance
that rocks are made of    
(as is used in building materials),
with great speed
because of a real or perceived want of time,
for I am somebody considered to lack
good sense or judgment
and I go by the appellation Lubbert Das.

O person highly skilled at something...
let me encourage you to act
with even greater speed
and excise from the topmost part of my body
where the brain, eyes, nose, ears, mouth
and jaws are situated,
this small piece of mineralised earth
that has been worn smooth by erosion,
for I am the person formerly employed
to amuse a monarch or noble
usually by telling jokes,
singing comical songs,
or performing tricks
and they use the particular term
'Lubbert Das'
to address or refer to me.

O person who in some games has reached
a high level of achievement,
especially in chess or bridge...
without delay please nick out the seed,
the pit, the pip or kernel
that is lodged in my cranio-skeletal caput,
in order to correct what might otherwise be
a misleading impression that I am
a comic performer usually in a circus
who does not speak and wears
an outlandish costume and heavy makeup
and who goes by the uncomplimentary
or abusive word or phrase
used to describe somebody such as this:
'Lubbert Das'.

O man in a position of authority
e.g. over a business or servants,
who controls or influences events or other things...
would you put yourself into that state
in which somebody moves
or does something with great speed
because that dimension which enables us
to measure the interval between two events
is short,
and remove from the section of my body
that is forward of all other segments
a piece of rock that has been shaped
by geological processes,
for I am that somebody or something
who has been given the name
of an ill-mannered or ineffectual person:
Lubbert Das.

O man who is a teacher, especially in a school,
or whom we address with this title as a religious leader...
can I cause you to move increasingly quickly
and chop out of the highest, uppermost,
or foremost part of me
this small hard mass of mineral material
that has formed in one of my organs
(such as the kidney or gall bladder
but which, in this case, is inside
the controlling centre of my nervous system
that is connected to the spinal cord
and which consists of a mass of nerve tissue
regulating my bodily activities),
for I am said to be somebody
who behaves comically,
a practical joker described or thought of
in the particular way:
Lubbert Das.

O person who is highly skilled in a trade or craft
and is qualified to teach apprentices...
please move, act, or proceed with haste
and hack out the small hard mass
that is stuck in that part of me which is
the centre of human faculties of intellect,
emotion and reasoning,
for I am only somebody considered to be

or made to appear
and the word, term, or phrase
by which I am known and distinguished
from other people or things
is Lubbert Das.

Hieronymus Bosch - an anagrammatic poem

Oh subsonic rhyme:
your 'Shh' combines
his roomy bunches.

Hey sonic rhombus:
my chino rosebush
is chosen by humor.

Oh bunchy isomers:
my shrub cohesion
obeys micron hush.

Hush nosy microbe:
his shrub economy
is bushy on chrome...

   his choosy number
   hums bony heroics
   in mushy brooches...

       his bunchy Romeos
       buy him schooners
       on my birch houses!

Our Boyish Mensch
Such bony heroism!
Such homey robins!

I bunch my horses.
I rush honeycombs.
Cue boorish hymns.

The Fool on 'The End of the World'
N+7 variations on 'It's the end of the world'
It's the end of the worm as we know it,
it's the end as the hungry thrush feeds.
It's the end of its wounds and its worries.
It's the end of the worry beads.

It's the end of the wort as we know it
just as we start slaking our thirst.
It's the end of the words of the wordsmith.
It's the end of the Wurst.

It's the end of the workouts we practiced,
it's the end of the worldly as well.
As the worthy make way for the worthless,
it's the end of what's worthwhile.

It's the end of the worm as we know it,
it's the end as the hungry thrush feeds.
It's the end of its wounds and its worries.
It's the end of the worry beads.

     Andy Brown 2011