Beauty is hidden everywhere,
even in the simplest things.
The beauty of Opera, little dancing.
The beauty of Ballet, no-one sings.
As you probable know,
there was once a gulf
between three little pigs
and a big bad Wolf.
As their name may suggest,
the little pigs were small,
but the Wolf was fat
and long and tall.
Quite a disparity.
Do the Math.
Also the Wolf
was a psychopath.
Now the pigs,
in a pig-sty,
with a flowery fence,
more pretty than high,
and little defence
when Wolf came by,
singing a song about pork
and straw-berry jam.
STRAW? cried Piglet, We've lots of straw!
She sharpened a trotter
and started to draw
a house to comply with Planning Law.
The pigs moved in,
in their pretty pink trousers,
thinking their house was as safe as
But along came Wolf,
with a secret weapon,
Used both, in sequence.
Walls fell down.
But the pigs, in wigs,
got out of town.
Said Middle Sister,
See that tree?
It's made of sticks.
And, she, for a pig,
quite lithe and limber,
concocted a pigwam
out of timber.
Like a stale cliché,
or a metronome,
back comes Wolf
to delete their home.
Pigs blown out but,
what got my goat
was Wolf hung on in there,
took time to gloat.
With second-hand porter,
to stiffen the mortar,
and Wolf manure,
so it's all secure.
Nothing left to chance.
Wolf kicks the wall - Oh!
Limps off crockily,
-bergines and broccoli.
THE BALLAD OF JAMES JOYCE
I've a golden voice.
Born in Dublin. Life was grim,
but the family called me Sunny Jim.
he could talk
for Ireland - "OR, BETTER STILL, COUNTY CORK!"
by a thirst,
no Saint Jerome,
he drank us out of house and home.
Messed up his job as a Rate Collector.
begod he wrecked her:
after child -
BAILLIFS AHOY, BOY.
HEAD FOR BRAY."
Where I loved a lass.
Holy Ireland, God help me God!
At Newman's Uni, off my knees,
I worshipped Ibsen, and took my ease
up a Tower in Sandycove. First Bloomsday,
I loved a great woman from Galway Bay.
from our native land,
From cash, or a marriage band,
Into Illyria, interminglish.
I taught Austro-Hungarians Irish-English,
and wrote about me, dear Dublln, and pomes
only fit to be sung. Two splendiferous tomes:
OOLY SAEZ and FINNEGANS WAKE.
Rejoice with oysters and whiskey cake!
For now that I'm out of copyright,
you're all very welcome, and free to recite
from Molly, Bloom,and the Wake and all, while over in Zu-
rich, there by the Zoo,
I'll be laughing and singing along with you.
Herriott the Hero,
Man without Fear, o
Of the Squall,
The Siren Cry
Of Alaskan Sky,
Of the Salm
On, the Moo
Of the Moose,
Of the Caribou.
Hairy Herriott, Child
Of the Wild,
One to waltz
With a Grizzly Bear,
And walk through
Dangerous Dan McGrew
As if he wasn't there.
Sturdy and Thick
As a Stocky Stick,
Our Captain Ahab,
Our Moby Dick.
Took the Pis
At the End of June,
This Davy Crockett,
This Daniel Boone ...
This Finn Mac Cool
Took a Yukon Hike
To a New Klondyke,
With a Break for Wine
At The Lonesome Pine ...
Anova off to lure a Lass,
To lure Alas
A Mount McKinley of Moolah:
Sit back and survey,
When, if ever,
You're Free of the Flailing Fish,
In Baked Alaska,
Up out of a Bony Dish,
By one of Three Million Lakes,
The Woodland Scene:
The Spruce, the Bear,
The Wolf, and the Wolverine.
Sit Proud, Brave Bounty Hunter,
While we Poor Paddies
And Meek, Miserable Micks,
Settle for Twix.
Jump Ship when you can.
Forsake your Fishing Smack,
Lugger, Sampan, or Cool Kayak.
And Flush enough to buy a Record Round,
Rush Home for Irish Bull, The Yackety Yak ...
Oh, ALLALOO, the Man is Back!
(Arm in a sling from a Salmon attack.)
So raise an Armful of Armagnac.
Three Cheers for Giant-Killing Jack!
And Serious Fun and Wholesome Craic,
On Ireland's Holy Ground.
In the Good Old Days, in what's still a bakery called Molloys,
My Grandad, Andy O'Connor, was Bray's Baker - "BOYS OH BOYS!"
He survived three wives. Oh, the ladies caught his fancy.
And he'd four expensive daughters: Eileen, Cora, Lucy, and my Mum, Nancy.
So he dreamed up
"A SURE-FIRE, MONEY-MAKING SCHEME:
RAMS, EWES AND LAMBS, I'LL TAKE FROM MY COUNTY,
GALWAY, TO SLAKE THEIR FILL,
ON THE SUMPTUOUS BOUNTY
OF A WICKLOW HILL.
THEY'LL THRIVE AND SWELL LIKE YEAST,
ON THE LUSH, PLUSH, PAMPERED PASTURES OF THE EAST!
They swelled like woolly balloons. They failed to thrive.
Soon, not a Western beast was left alive.
The grass was classy, but, Alas, too gassy for the Galway chassis.
And the swollen souls of the home-sick sheep
flew Westward Ho to eternal sleep.
Unhappy Pappy found that sheep'll
let you down, and so will people.
For, in those days, Bakers extended extended credit,
and, if you've a tear to shed, here's where to shed it.
For the mean and minjy, serene and stingy,
begrudging tight-fisters of Bray
were so slow to pay,
Good Old Grandad went bust!
A Baker, left, bereft, without a crust.
Till he met pretty Kitty,
his fine, final wife,
who kept him in clover
the rest of his life!
(Commissioned by Sharp's Folk Club)
Born in the Bronx, a proud New Yorker,
like his life-long friend, Joe Locker.
Tom was never a frenzied Rocker.
An urban guy. No city slicker.
Seen as a stellar banjo picker ...
Allan, his first name, but that appellation
seemed insufficiently Appalachian,
so they called him Tom, a plain strong name
for a handsome man, disdaining fame.
A crate-digger. To that obsession, a martyr.
Digging for old recordings by a family called Carter.
In every record store, he dug for more 'n' more
old-timey music from string bands:
Skillet Lickers ... Corn Shuckers ... Aristocratic Pigs ...
with their hoe-downs & their jigs.
Tunes from many a millworker & farm hand.
Songs about REAL THINGS. Not from Fairy Land!
Tom guitared ... Where?
At Hootenannies & Washington Square,
& at Wing-Dings in the warm embrace
of Pete Seeger's place.
John Cohen & Tom formed the New Lost City Ramblers,
with Pete & Peggy's brother, Mike.
This was their apotheosis, their Klondyke!
The New York Times thought them ace,
They ... evocatively re-create a far-off time & place.
They also said Tom had no rival, He drove, they wrote, a folk revival.
Tom impressed Bob Dylan, to such a degree
maybe without a job,
maybe needing to fill an empty crate,
STOLE a Tom Paley 78.
About the Ramblers, All their songs vibrated with some dizzy, portentous truth, Bob later wrote,
& that's a quote.
Born in time for the Wall Street Crash,
Tom was a babe when it all went smash.
Depression, Dustbowl, & a New Deal,
when FDR put his shoulder to the wheel ...
Pearl Harbor. Victory. Then the Red Scare.
Reds under Beds. They were everywhere!
McCarthy or Stalin? Which way to go?
Now was the time to choose your Joe.
For a TV booking, Tom wouldn't deny
that he was a Communist. Later said, "I
was never a member of the Communist Party,
but it was none of the network's business".
Most people grovelled to Joe McCarthy ...
The Ramblers lost several bookings, so, to get by,
they dispensed with Tom ... Who, phoenix-like, arose,
formed the Old Reliable String Band,
with Artie Rose.
Tom left the States in '63, mostly over Vietnam,
I'm not doing this to save my skin,
but I've little quarrel with Ho Chi Minh,
& I'll not stick around to sing, LBJ,
How many kids did you kill today? ...
To Sweden. Already in love with every Ingmar Bergman movie,
he fell in love with Swedish Fiddling, found it ... Groovy!
But Ewan McColl & Peggy Seeger
lured him to Blighty in '65,
where he formed the New Deal String Band,
recorded with Peggy, who wrote,
of her delight,
at his brilliant guitar & banjo playing & his rock-solid rhythm.
He played like a mathematician. He never craved the limelight.
Jon Pankake, the folklorist ~
& with that name,
what else could he be? ~
Jon Pankake saw Tom Paley as,
quintessentially witty, thoroughly urban & intellectual,
given to outrageous puns & wordplay, a master-teller of jokes,
a breathtaking showman on finger-picked guitar & banjo.
Which was nice but, sad to say,
nothing rhymes with Banjo!
(Except Mr Locker. That canny man. Joe.)
Tom featured for Tom Jones & Van Morrison,
& for Lead Belly Nights & many a curtain-call
at the Carnegie & the Royal Albert Hall,
& I don't want to strain your patience,
but it was far from a matter of chance
that he was Honorary President of the Friends of American
Old-Time Music & Dance.
He became a Fiddlehead:
a fixture at Islington Folk Club, & Shakespeare's Head,
at Cellar Upstairs, & at Sharp's in our play-pen,
at Musical Traditions, & Whitby & Sidmouth with Ben ...
His last album, with Ben, was PALEY & SON,
&, before we're done,
Ben deserves a cheer & a line of beers,
for the help he gave his Dad in the declining years.
We remember Tom, hauling his heavy gear,
cranking his shoulder, year after year.
Sometimes, first to arrive, & settle
in for the night on the under-window settle.
His duty, to contribute to the beauty, & the fun.
This brave, benevolent, quippy hippy,
singing 'bout the Mississippi,
gaunt, sleepy, with a smile that's wry,
a glittering eye,
a wicked remark, & a groan-inducing pun ...
The Swedes will flourish in the weeds. The fiddle, kiss her beau.
When he plays another polska, & our hearts are all a-glow.
Tom, being questioned, for a retirement home.
ANY FOODS YOU PARTICULARLY LIKE?
Most foods, I like.
ANYTHING YOU DISLIKE?
When Ben said he was cancelling a show,
in China, to look after him, Tom, most indig-
nant, jumped up in bed,
For God's sake, don't let THAT
get in the way of a gig!
This was commissioned by Sharp's Folk Club
& performed at their Club Night
& at the Tom Paley Tribute Concert
in Cecil Sharp House on October 24th 2017,
the day of Tom's funeral.
DESPERATION [a sonnet]
Oh, It's easy to find a randy man,
a brandy man or a shandy man.
But where can you find a handyman?
That's what I need to know!
Has every glazier turned lazier?
Is every sparks in the doomy dark?
Your plumber, off in search of summer?
All chippies, up the Mississippi?
And where did all the all-rounders go?
Is what I want to know.
I know I should do the job myself,
but then I remember my latest shelf,
which slumps if you put anything on it.
But it'll do. (Likewise my sonnet.)
My 2001 transcription
of the Irish National Anthem in Irish
into English words:
add-thaw Fay-owl egg-Aaron
hard-thin the-raw Nick-who-wing
shan't-hear or shin-sheer fast-the
And here's my free version in English
of the Irish text:
Citizens are we,
whose love is pledged to Ireland.
From away across the sea.
Sworn to be free!
No more our land of Ireland
shall shelter the tyrant or the slave.
we're ready for the fray.
In Ireland's cause,
the weak are strong.
Though traitors mock
and cowards quake,
we'll sing the Irish Song!
from TENNIS RACQ
Now I'm a Wow,
like Woody-wood Becker.
us or Billy-Jean.
I can do it
better than Lleyton Hewitt,
ee call me The Gaffa!
than Andy Roddick,
twice as shagassy
as André Agassi.
Compared to me, Henman
was a hen, man;
in too much of a hurry.
Me vee Sharapova
I'd make Halep gallop,,
and Horlicks out of Coco,
I'd make a hash of Ash,
and, as for Keerios,
you can't be seerios!
I'm tasty as a billabong,
and just as strong,
with my boomerang serve,
as Miss Goola-
So it seems.
In my dreams!
Oh, it's not just the Gladiators
and the Gladioli,
WE ALSO SERVE
who only stand
to little or no avail.
For there's a Law of Life,
it's practically official,
that, for those Hot Shots with their Sting Bats
to succeed, some sacrificial
have to fail.
NIGHT VISITORS, MELBOURNE
Before the dawn, a flurry …
Out of the hearth - a Bat?
Out of the bed,
What to do?
Birds? Black birds in flight,
scattering soot 'n' shite ...
Call Pest Control? Our guests
don't qualify as pests ...
We open a tiny window but they scoff
at our kindly invitation to piss off.
Preferring to assail a wider window,
they batter the frantic windowpane in vain ...
contact a neighbour. She
winds windowframe ajar.
A bird escapes - HOORAH!
But where's its mate?
Flew back up flue?
Out tiny window?
I don't care - Do you?
We humbly mumble Thanks to neighbour,
almost lost for words,
thinking: Damn you, Alfred Hitchcock,
Why did you make THE BIRDS?
(a seaside town to the North of Dublin)
In Malahide, long years ago,
from a tennis club, I was told to go,
for digging with a Papish foot.
(I felt like Adam when the gate was shut.)
In Malahide, in the Grand Hotel,
which wasn't grand then, or posh, or swell,
the rooms were haunted, the grounds were wild,
a magical world for an ageing child.
In Malahide, at the Grand Hotel,
my sister's do, I remember well;
and the nun who'd just jumped over the wall,
who didn't behave like a nun at all.
In Malahide, a kindly priest
saw me becoming a sensual beast:
If you don't give up helping yourself,
you'll end up in Hell, on the bachelor shelf.
In Malahide, I fell in love,
and flew in my mind to the stars above.
She hailed from Glasgow. My heart, I lent her.
(But her mother returned the letter I sent her.)
In Malahide, I found Romance.
In Malahide, I lost my pants:
swept out to sea on the ebbing tide!
Just a tiny towel. (I nearly died.)
A tale or a song, even a folk song,
needn't go on and on, a cause of grief. Be brief.
Bow to the listener, a thoughtful grovel.
A story, yes - but not, please not, a novel.
Edit. If it's half-sheddable, shed it.
There's no disgrace in cutting to the chase.
Oh hear my heartfelt cry, my frenzied dictum:
I'm here as a paying guest - not as a victim.
THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF COOL
You've probably heard of Old King Cole,
an English King, a merry old soul,
but this is the story of Good King Cool.
Head of the Feeyanna*.
An Irish King and nobody's fool,
who spent his time on rhyme and song,
so they bumped him off before too long ...
They did him in, but not before
he'd wed a feisty wife who bore a son whose name was Finn.
A widow now, afraid
that Finn might also be waylaid
and privatised with shovel and spade,
to thwart the downward Thumb of Doom,
Fee climbed (Oh, sorry. Her name was Fee)
up a tiny mountain called Sleeve Bloom
to meet two witches (It's usually three).
is the proper word,
which won't make sense
unless you've heard
of the women of the Ama-Zon
who fight without pyjamas on,
and beat the tar
out of any men,
whoever they are.
Make him tough,
said Fee, and that's enough.
Well, not quite enough.
He's to join the Feeyanna*
when he's big,
so he'll need to know
how to pluck a pig,
and defeat nine men
with just a shield,
as the sky
and under a field,
and that's the lot.
But it was not.
For she forgot:
he hadn't just to be tough
I mean, that's enough
for a Prince of Wales;
but the Feeyanna*
demand more than Get-up-and-Go-etry.
You've to memorise
twenty-three books of Poetry!
Once the Amazon ninjas
got him fit,
with a six-pack and abs
and all that shit,
they packed him off
to the local magus,
a wordy wizard
who'd a quiver
of arrows, for shooting fish
when they came upriver.
he tried and tried,
to tell you the truth,
he damn near died,
to get some Poem
into Finn's mighty, muscular doem.
Jam-packed with protein,
averse to verse,
it made Finnaegus
roar and curse.
Finn couldn't take Pomes in his cerebellum,
IT'S PROBABLY THE WAY YOU TELL 'EM!
Finnaegus said, That's total gammon.
You need to be more
of a piscivore!**
So he shot a salmon,
and gave it to the lad to fry.
As it lay in the pan, said Finn, I'll try
and see is it cooked - Ow! Burnt his thumb,
which he stuck in his mouth and, via the gum,
his brain steamed up with streams of verse.
(Some, better than this. And one, far worse.)
NOW I KNOW ALL, LIKE I BEEN TO COLLEGE.
THIS MUST BE THE SALMON OF KNOWLEDGE!
So he joined the Feeyanna*,
like dear dead Dad,
made his Mammy proud,
but the Feeyanna, MAD,
for they couldn't fox him ...
he won every quiz ...
a pain in the bum -
you know how it is -
so they did him in
with shovel and spade;
and that's the ending, I'm afraid***.
* Feeyanna = FIANNA: Band of SuperHeroes.
Like the Knights of the Round Table, but more rounded.
** Piscivore = one who knows his plaice.
*** Very afraid.
If the Fianna ever get to hear of this.
It slipped my mind that Finn must have somehow overcome the mortality issue for he lived on to become Finn Mac Cool, one of Ireland's most heroic heroes and did many apocryphal deeds, as was par for the course in those days.
I have amended the blunder in subsequent verse.
Songs for UnGays
to sing at Gay Weddings
to the tune of
Owed to Gay
NOT DROWNING BUT WIVING
We are not Gay,
but, if we were,
instead of Him,
we'd marry Her.
Instead of Jim,
we'd marry Jane.
No more we'd swim
against the grain.
No to Man,
and Yes to Woman.
This has been
a long time comin'.
Wife and Wife
may cut down strife.
Two spoons, no knife:
a Hope of Life!
We are not Gay,
but, if we were,
we'd marry Him
instead of Her.
Instead of Her,
we'd marry Him.
Instead of Jane,
we'd marry Jim.
we'd sing a Hymn,
and not a Hyrrh.
We'd love each other
and we'd call each other,
THE RACKER ROAD TO LONDON
Passports at last located, we drove from Bray
to Dublin Port.
By 3pm, the wife & I were on our way.
Nothing to report.
rested & well-fed.
& back to our lovely motor,
our trusty friend,
the old Toyota.
with a manual key -
OF A MAD BANSHEE!
Screaming on & on & on,
as by-standers smirk
Night falls as we cruise along
Set the Satnav. Something's wrong.
CAN'T FIND SATELLITES. Not to worry.
We know the way & there's no hurry.
Fuel gauge is dipping low.
Can we find a garage? No.
They must hate drivers, the way they vex 'em,
we chuckle, & miss the road to Wrexham ...
& somehow come to Runcorn Town,
which looks forlorn as a drunken clown,
as we poodle and tootle all around,
no petrol station to be found.
A passer-by, who talks so queer,
I LIKE TO HELP BUT I NOT FROM HERE ...
& a would-be helper, who strains our patience
with floods of forgettable informations.
So we land up in a Slough of Despond,
somewhere out in the back of beyond.
Our Hunting of the Petroleum Snark
has led us to Eddie Stobart's Lorry Park.
Where a trucker's forefinger points the way
to an Esso garage. (He made our day.)
Where a lady with a smily mouth
says, WHAT YOU WANT IS THE M6, SOUTH.
More banshee wails!
And the Brum bit blocked.
Just to survive,
we switch to the M5.
to throttle the thoroughfare!
Why didn't we come by Ryanair?
A DOUBLE CRASH!
a total smash.
We took out two Cones.
But again the Screaming!
Is this what it seems,
or are we dreaming?
More Dalek cones..
Exhaust-pipe heckles like rattled bones.
All junctions, CLOSED. In despairful hope,
we try old Satnav who can't cope.
Our troubles never ceased.
We entered North London from the East!
& parked at 3 'neath our block of flats
as Car-alarm shrieked, HERE COME THE PRATS!
As it yelled, FAREWELL,
to timely alcohol
& a quiet bed.
The Songs of Erin
are always charmin',
though sometimes alarmin'
in their fiery mood.
'Tis a real rapscallion
would claim Eyetalian
or German music is half as good.
zart nor Handel
could hold a candle
to Molly Malone
through a megaphone;
or to Erin's daughter,
singing songs of slaughter,
in harmony, or in Inishowen,
or on her own.
With music to whisk you. Where?
From here to there!
To Donegal, Mayo, & County Clare.
From your borough
in London to the Curragh
From Kilburn, Hammersmith, Camden Town
to the Glens of Antrim, the Ups of Down.
to the Cliffs
& the Cliffs of Less.
to the Mountains of Mourne.
To fresh Eyre
& Galway Bay.
Kiss the Blarney Stone
& Molly Malone.
In the hug of Irish Music,
you'll never be alone!
Like rabbits on stilts, or shrunken llamas.
Flocks in flocculent pyjamas.
Faces like Lady Bracknell's gardeners' trowels.
Whiff of grapeshot from blackberry bowels.
with precarious legs,
& your granny's knees.
Ears, in fear of every teasing breeze.
Muzzles, with graven grins.
scalps of Apache grass;
then, all the bog-cotton-picking day to dally,
chewing the cud, like good ole boys on a beach in Bali.
When they're not rutting,
Here's a Glasgow kiss for you, mate!
& they'd smother their mother
to get through a gate.
Our modern sheep
descends from the Mediterranean Mouflon
& the Asian Uriel.
Mouflon just acted the goat &, as for Uriel,
you'd get more wool off your Auntie Muriel.
Though they don't care a fig for pagan pig
or tapeworm-harbouring ham,
every Hajji, Ayatollah & Imam
salutes with warm salaam
"That lamb you pet,
my dear Amanda,
will end up et
as Lamb Pasanda.
If that makes you edgy,
turn veggie ...
Or, if that's too hard, turn half-way hypocrite,
a wishy-washy fish'n'chipocrite.
The thought of slaughter,
me darlin' daughter,
don't make me quiverous,
for I'm carnivorous!"
Like the Beast,
is yon farmer to be fleeced?
Dipped, ripped & frozen fresh?
Will meat-eating go the Way of All Flesh?
who think they're Rambo!
doing the Mambo!
Wait five months
& there's a lamb bo-
ldly bawling, HERE I AM!
Male, doctored (Ooh!).
& the keening!
Where are ya, Ma?
Mammies bleat, Here I am,
Gambolling against the Green,
the Shining Lamb!
Against the odds,
uncowed, cavorting in the foolishness of freedom,
jumping for joy across the hungry grass,
shaking a weedy hoof at the greedy gods.
Living for Now!
(This last section is highly optional.
My advice is: Skip it ~ like the lamb.)
A 12-stanza sequence
of 75 irregular verbs,
which includes all the ones
that broadsheets, broadcasters
& English-learners tend to get wrong,
& shows that irregular verbs
are not that irregular.
It can also be used as a series of mantras,
a cure for insomnia,
or notes for an autobiographical novel.
I drink, I drank, I have drunk.
I shrink, I shrank, I have shrunk.
I stink, I stank, I have stunk.
I sink, I sank, I have sunk.
You sing, you sang, you have sung.
You spring, you sprang, you have sprung.
You ring with an R, you rang, you have rung.
You wring with a W, you wrung, you have wrung.
You swing, you swung, you have swung.
He comes, he came, he has come.
He swims, he swam, he has swum.
He draws, he drew, he has drawn.
He saws, he sawed, he has sawn.
He shines, he shone, he has shone.
He goes, he went, he has gone.
She knows, she knew, she has known.
She blows, she blew, she has blown.
She throws, she threw, she has thrown.
She grows, she grew, she has grown.
She sews with an E, she sewed, she has sewn.
She sows with an O, she sowed, she has sown.
She shows, she showed, she has shown.
She mows, she mowed, she has mown.
You swell, you swelled, you have swollen.
You steal, you stole, you have stolen.
You do, you did, you have done.
You spin, you spun, you have spun.
You run, you ran, you have run.
You win, you won, you have won.
They eat, they ate, they have eaten.
They beat, they beat, they have beaten.
They slay, they slew, they have slain.
They lie (down), they lay, they have lain.
They see, they saw, they have seen.
They are, they were, they have been.
They break, they broke, they have broken.
They wake, they woke, they have woken.
They speak, they spoke, they have spoken.
I wear, I wore, I have worn.
I tear, I tore, I have torn.
I swear, I swore, I have sworn.
I hide, I hid, I have hidden.
I ride, I rode, I have ridden.
I take, I took, I have taken.
I shake, I shook, I have shaken.
I forsake, I forsook, I have forsaken.
You feel, you felt, you have felt.
You deal, you dealt, you have dealt.
You mean, you meant, you have meant.
You send, you sent, you have sent.
You creep, you crept, you have crept.
You keep, you kept, you have kept.
You sleep, you slept, you have slept.
He buys, he bought, he has bought.
He brings, he brought, he has brought.
He fights, he fought, he has fought.
He thinks, he thought, he has thought.
He teaches, he taught, he has taught.
She says, she said, she has said.
She breeds, she bred, she has bred.
She feeds, she fed, she has fed.
She flees, she fled, she has fled.
We bind, we bound, we have bound.
We grind, we ground, we have ground.
We sell, we sold, we have sold.
We tell, we told, we have told.
We make, we made, we have made.
We lay (eggs), we lay, we have laid.
We pay, we paid, we have paid.