Fic: Conkers Are Bonkers: The Poetry of Sirius Black
Day 15 of scarvesnhats. The prompt was conker fights.
Special thanks to all who took part in the poetry poll, which I feel inspired Sirius with his creative efforts.
Author - shaggydogstail
Title - Conkers are Bonkers: The Poetry of Sirius Black
Rating - PG-13 for crudeness
Disclaimer - Not mine, no profit. I'm pleased not to have to take responsibility for the poetry
Description - Unable to compete in the inter-house conker championships, Sirius devotes his energies to poetry.
The morning of the sixth annual inter-house conker contest dawned bright and breezy. The sporting youth of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were a-quiver with excitement about the contest, which, for the first time ever, was wide open.
The glory of being crowned inter-house Conker Champion was highly prized, never more so now that fearless conker conquistador and five-times inter-house champion, Sirius Black, was out of the running.
Rumours were rife about how it had happened. The official line (put out, but not fully believed, by the teaching staff) was that it had been a simple accident on a moving staircase, the principle factors being too much speed and too little care. Gryffindors of a suspicious disposition muttered darkly about ‘nobbling.’ Syltherins of an even more suspicious disposition claimed that Sirius had lost his touch, and was faking it to avoid a humiliating defeat. Salacious tales abounded about a wanking injury (most of which could be traced to one James Potter). However it happened, one thing was sure: Sirius had broken his wrist.
Madam Pomfrey, notorious sadist that she was, had refused to mend it magically, and told Sirius he’d have to make do with a pain-killing charm and a couple of bandages. She seemed to be under the impression that Sirius spent altogether too long hanging around the hospital wing making a nuisance of himself, and that he probably brought the injury on himself anyway.
Sirius couldn’t write, could barely dress himself, and certainly could not play conkers. He could, however, still compose frankly shocking poetry, as, in a moment of weakness, Professor McGonagall had agreed to lend him a Quick Quotes Quill. Denied the glory of competition, Sirius devoted the weekend of the inter-house conker championships to expanding his oeuvre, which up until this point had consisted primarily of odes to the joys of Quidditch, the glory of Gryffindor and the loveliness of Remus Lupin’s bottom. (Sirius considered himself to be a great Romantic poet, in the vein of Lord Byron, Samuel Coleridge or similar, and was already planning a tour of Italy, stoking his muse and collecting venereal diseases.)
Sirius recited the first of ‘The Conker Season Collection,’ at breakfast in the Great Hall:
Oh, woe is me
How can it be?
I’ve lost the knack for conkers
It could be worse
I have my verse
Without it I’d go bonkers.
His friends agreed that it was fair to middlingly awful, and James suggested a slight amendment to the last line.
Despite being a bit sulky about not being able to compete, and his friends’ lack of gushing praise for his poetic efforts, Sirius agreed to go and watch the first rounds of the championship in the south courtyard. He had a mind to compose an epic ballad to commemorate the event.
After a thrilling morning’s play, during which six competitors were ruled out for illegally Charming their conkers, four eyes were blacked by over-vigorous swings and many knuckles were bruised, it was time for lunch. There was a collective sigh of relief when Sirius admitted his muse had failed him, and there was no conker commentary poetry to be had. Remus, who had seen Sirius whispering animatedly to the Quill throughout the morning, was suspicions. A surreptitious frisk of Sirius’ pockets revealed a some crumpled parchment, with the following poem amongst many crossings out:
Swirling, whirling, morning mist
Tender sunbeams, foggily kissed
The ache, so deep, within my wrist.
Conker glory dreams are sank
This poet’s mind has drawn a blank
Tis pity he can’t even wank.
Remus thought he’d better hang on to it for safekeeping.
As if that weren’t poetry enough, though, Sirius composed another, especially for him, during pudding. He claimed to have been inspired by the rhubarb crumble. (Fortunately for all concerned Peter’s attempts at constructing a smutty joke about why a piece of rhubarb might make Sirius think of Remus failed utterly.)
Sirius recited the poem out loud, with much dramatic intonation of voice, and several manic hand gestures.
Most delicious boy,
You are my joy.
Keen as mustard,
And sweet as custard.
When you lick your spoon,
I get all flustered.
Peter groaned loudly while James feigned vomiting into his pudding bowl. Remus rolled his eyes and tried not to look thrilled.
By the end of the first day of the inter-house conker championship the hospital wing was full, several life-long feuds had started, and James and Peter had both been knocked out, due, no doubt, to shameful cheating. (Remus refused to compete, claiming an exceedingly rare allergy to the fruit of the horse chestnut tree, which he had mysteriously developed shortly after being defeated by a first year Hufflepuff girl in his third year.)
Sirius had written a poem about Professor McGonagall:
Oh, most splendid cat
You are where it’s at.
Your whiskers provoke
My urge to stroke.
And several less flattering ones about Severus Snape. He was particularly proud of the one he Charmed the statue of Douglas the Dastardly to sing:
Snivellus is an oily git
His brains are truly full of shit.
From his hair there’s grease emergin’
It’s no wonder he’s a virgin.
There was talk of Silencing Charms when Sirius threatened haiku about Shepherd’s Pie during dinner, and James offered to burn the Quill when he tried to use it to write blank verse on his Wizard Chess board. Even Peter turned down Sirius’ generous offer to compose a ballad to a special rat, which made Sirius very gloomy indeed.
Remus waited until no-one was watching before kissing Sirius, and telling him not to worry, as great poets are always misunderstood. When he went to bed, he found the following message written in smudgy ink on his pillow:
Oh, loveliest Remus
There’s something between us.
You make my tummy go funny,
And send tingles to my penis.
It made him blush terribly.
The second and final day of the inter-house conker championship saw the entire school in a virtual frenzy. A number of illegal gambling rackets had been set up, and the question of house pride was at stake. Sirius was fretting because he couldn’t think of a rhyme for orange.
‘Porridge?’ suggested Peter, shovelling some into his mouth. ‘If you pronounce it a bit funny.’ Which, to be fair, he did with a mouth full of it.
‘Minge,’ said James confidently, just as Lily Evans was walking past, earning him a swift slap around the head.
Sirius howled in despair, poor tortured soul that he was.
‘Hinge,’ said Remus. ‘Or whinge, impinge, stinge or fringe.’
Sirius beamed at him, and James muttered something about not encouraging him.
They were just leaving the Great Hall to watch the quarter-finals, when Sirius crept up behind Remus, and whispered in his ear:
You’re juicer than an orange,
You caused my heart to twinge.
It shouldn’t come as any shock,
That I’d like you to suck my cock.
Remus dragged him into the nearest broom cupboard, having suddenly realised that conkers was not only potentially allergy-inducing, but really quite dull compared to other things.
Of course, not even a great poet like Sirius could keep it up indefinitely. He struggled to produce any great works during the final (a stunning victory for a fourth year Ravenclaw), and couldn’t even muster the will to complete his ode to Dumbledore’s beard when the Headmaster presented the Cup. (And he’d made such a promising start too, with, it’s length is unique, it’s shiny and sleek). There were sausages for dinner, and nothing rhymes with sausages. Sirius was feeling uninspired
.
By nightfall he’d only managed to think of one more poem, an ode to toothpaste, composed while he and Remus brushed their teeth together before bedtime:
Some might say it is a waste
To write poems about toothpaste.
But if it were gone I’d really miss it,
Cos my mouth would get manky
And you wouldn’t want to kiss it.
Sirius didn’t think it was a terrible poem (it did make Remus kiss him again, so clearly there was something right about it) but he still felt he was losing his muse. Matters weren’t helped by James and Peter challenging him to produce poems on blankets, owls, the crack in the ceiling over Peter’s bed, and mental instability in teenage wizards. Sirius drew a blank on them all.
‘I think I’m losing it, Moony,’ he confessed quietly when the others had gone to sleep. ‘My soul is as broken as my wrist.’
‘Poor Padfoot,’ muttered Remus, cuddling him. ‘Perhaps you’ve just overdone it?’
‘Maybe,’ said Sirius. ‘Do you think a surfeit of creativity can drive a person mad?’
Remus frowned. ‘I’ve never known it to happen,’ he mused. ‘But perhaps you shouldn’t risk it.’
‘OK,’ agreed Sirius. ‘No more poems for a day or two.’ He looked very sad at the prospect. ‘Perhaps when my wrist is better, I could take up painting.’
‘Good idea. I’m sure I’ll like your paintings,’ said Remus loyally.
Feeling much better, Sirius kissed Remus goodnight, and settled down to sleep.
In the morning he found a small piece of parchment folded up in the pocket of his pyjama jacket. He unfolded it with some difficulty, and read a note in Remus’ handwriting:
To Padfoot, who has lost his mind to poetry,
Your scans are quite awful
Your rhymes should be unlawful
Your poems are utterly mad
And yet…
If you are insane
I think I must be too
I love you.
Sirius grinned, and contemplated a happy future as a muse.
FIN
(A/N - Feedback is my muse)
Special thanks to all who took part in the poetry poll, which I feel inspired Sirius with his creative efforts.
Author - shaggydogstail
Title - Conkers are Bonkers: The Poetry of Sirius Black
Rating - PG-13 for crudeness
Disclaimer - Not mine, no profit. I'm pleased not to have to take responsibility for the poetry
Description - Unable to compete in the inter-house conker championships, Sirius devotes his energies to poetry.
The morning of the sixth annual inter-house conker contest dawned bright and breezy. The sporting youth of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were a-quiver with excitement about the contest, which, for the first time ever, was wide open.
The glory of being crowned inter-house Conker Champion was highly prized, never more so now that fearless conker conquistador and five-times inter-house champion, Sirius Black, was out of the running.
Rumours were rife about how it had happened. The official line (put out, but not fully believed, by the teaching staff) was that it had been a simple accident on a moving staircase, the principle factors being too much speed and too little care. Gryffindors of a suspicious disposition muttered darkly about ‘nobbling.’ Syltherins of an even more suspicious disposition claimed that Sirius had lost his touch, and was faking it to avoid a humiliating defeat. Salacious tales abounded about a wanking injury (most of which could be traced to one James Potter). However it happened, one thing was sure: Sirius had broken his wrist.
Madam Pomfrey, notorious sadist that she was, had refused to mend it magically, and told Sirius he’d have to make do with a pain-killing charm and a couple of bandages. She seemed to be under the impression that Sirius spent altogether too long hanging around the hospital wing making a nuisance of himself, and that he probably brought the injury on himself anyway.
Sirius couldn’t write, could barely dress himself, and certainly could not play conkers. He could, however, still compose frankly shocking poetry, as, in a moment of weakness, Professor McGonagall had agreed to lend him a Quick Quotes Quill. Denied the glory of competition, Sirius devoted the weekend of the inter-house conker championships to expanding his oeuvre, which up until this point had consisted primarily of odes to the joys of Quidditch, the glory of Gryffindor and the loveliness of Remus Lupin’s bottom. (Sirius considered himself to be a great Romantic poet, in the vein of Lord Byron, Samuel Coleridge or similar, and was already planning a tour of Italy, stoking his muse and collecting venereal diseases.)
Sirius recited the first of ‘The Conker Season Collection,’ at breakfast in the Great Hall:
Oh, woe is me
How can it be?
I’ve lost the knack for conkers
It could be worse
I have my verse
Without it I’d go bonkers.
His friends agreed that it was fair to middlingly awful, and James suggested a slight amendment to the last line.
Despite being a bit sulky about not being able to compete, and his friends’ lack of gushing praise for his poetic efforts, Sirius agreed to go and watch the first rounds of the championship in the south courtyard. He had a mind to compose an epic ballad to commemorate the event.
After a thrilling morning’s play, during which six competitors were ruled out for illegally Charming their conkers, four eyes were blacked by over-vigorous swings and many knuckles were bruised, it was time for lunch. There was a collective sigh of relief when Sirius admitted his muse had failed him, and there was no conker commentary poetry to be had. Remus, who had seen Sirius whispering animatedly to the Quill throughout the morning, was suspicions. A surreptitious frisk of Sirius’ pockets revealed a some crumpled parchment, with the following poem amongst many crossings out:
Swirling, whirling, morning mist
Tender sunbeams, foggily kissed
The ache, so deep, within my wrist.
Conker glory dreams are sank
This poet’s mind has drawn a blank
Tis pity he can’t even wank.
Remus thought he’d better hang on to it for safekeeping.
As if that weren’t poetry enough, though, Sirius composed another, especially for him, during pudding. He claimed to have been inspired by the rhubarb crumble. (Fortunately for all concerned Peter’s attempts at constructing a smutty joke about why a piece of rhubarb might make Sirius think of Remus failed utterly.)
Sirius recited the poem out loud, with much dramatic intonation of voice, and several manic hand gestures.
Most delicious boy,
You are my joy.
Keen as mustard,
And sweet as custard.
When you lick your spoon,
I get all flustered.
Peter groaned loudly while James feigned vomiting into his pudding bowl. Remus rolled his eyes and tried not to look thrilled.
By the end of the first day of the inter-house conker championship the hospital wing was full, several life-long feuds had started, and James and Peter had both been knocked out, due, no doubt, to shameful cheating. (Remus refused to compete, claiming an exceedingly rare allergy to the fruit of the horse chestnut tree, which he had mysteriously developed shortly after being defeated by a first year Hufflepuff girl in his third year.)
Sirius had written a poem about Professor McGonagall:
Oh, most splendid cat
You are where it’s at.
Your whiskers provoke
My urge to stroke.
And several less flattering ones about Severus Snape. He was particularly proud of the one he Charmed the statue of Douglas the Dastardly to sing:
Snivellus is an oily git
His brains are truly full of shit.
From his hair there’s grease emergin’
It’s no wonder he’s a virgin.
There was talk of Silencing Charms when Sirius threatened haiku about Shepherd’s Pie during dinner, and James offered to burn the Quill when he tried to use it to write blank verse on his Wizard Chess board. Even Peter turned down Sirius’ generous offer to compose a ballad to a special rat, which made Sirius very gloomy indeed.
Remus waited until no-one was watching before kissing Sirius, and telling him not to worry, as great poets are always misunderstood. When he went to bed, he found the following message written in smudgy ink on his pillow:
Oh, loveliest Remus
There’s something between us.
You make my tummy go funny,
And send tingles to my penis.
It made him blush terribly.
The second and final day of the inter-house conker championship saw the entire school in a virtual frenzy. A number of illegal gambling rackets had been set up, and the question of house pride was at stake. Sirius was fretting because he couldn’t think of a rhyme for orange.
‘Porridge?’ suggested Peter, shovelling some into his mouth. ‘If you pronounce it a bit funny.’ Which, to be fair, he did with a mouth full of it.
‘Minge,’ said James confidently, just as Lily Evans was walking past, earning him a swift slap around the head.
Sirius howled in despair, poor tortured soul that he was.
‘Hinge,’ said Remus. ‘Or whinge, impinge, stinge or fringe.’
Sirius beamed at him, and James muttered something about not encouraging him.
They were just leaving the Great Hall to watch the quarter-finals, when Sirius crept up behind Remus, and whispered in his ear:
You’re juicer than an orange,
You caused my heart to twinge.
It shouldn’t come as any shock,
That I’d like you to suck my cock.
Remus dragged him into the nearest broom cupboard, having suddenly realised that conkers was not only potentially allergy-inducing, but really quite dull compared to other things.
Of course, not even a great poet like Sirius could keep it up indefinitely. He struggled to produce any great works during the final (a stunning victory for a fourth year Ravenclaw), and couldn’t even muster the will to complete his ode to Dumbledore’s beard when the Headmaster presented the Cup. (And he’d made such a promising start too, with, it’s length is unique, it’s shiny and sleek). There were sausages for dinner, and nothing rhymes with sausages. Sirius was feeling uninspired
.
By nightfall he’d only managed to think of one more poem, an ode to toothpaste, composed while he and Remus brushed their teeth together before bedtime:
Some might say it is a waste
To write poems about toothpaste.
But if it were gone I’d really miss it,
Cos my mouth would get manky
And you wouldn’t want to kiss it.
Sirius didn’t think it was a terrible poem (it did make Remus kiss him again, so clearly there was something right about it) but he still felt he was losing his muse. Matters weren’t helped by James and Peter challenging him to produce poems on blankets, owls, the crack in the ceiling over Peter’s bed, and mental instability in teenage wizards. Sirius drew a blank on them all.
‘I think I’m losing it, Moony,’ he confessed quietly when the others had gone to sleep. ‘My soul is as broken as my wrist.’
‘Poor Padfoot,’ muttered Remus, cuddling him. ‘Perhaps you’ve just overdone it?’
‘Maybe,’ said Sirius. ‘Do you think a surfeit of creativity can drive a person mad?’
Remus frowned. ‘I’ve never known it to happen,’ he mused. ‘But perhaps you shouldn’t risk it.’
‘OK,’ agreed Sirius. ‘No more poems for a day or two.’ He looked very sad at the prospect. ‘Perhaps when my wrist is better, I could take up painting.’
‘Good idea. I’m sure I’ll like your paintings,’ said Remus loyally.
Feeling much better, Sirius kissed Remus goodnight, and settled down to sleep.
In the morning he found a small piece of parchment folded up in the pocket of his pyjama jacket. He unfolded it with some difficulty, and read a note in Remus’ handwriting:
To Padfoot, who has lost his mind to poetry,
Your scans are quite awful
Your rhymes should be unlawful
Your poems are utterly mad
And yet…
If you are insane
I think I must be too
I love you.
Sirius grinned, and contemplated a happy future as a muse.
FIN
(A/N - Feedback is my muse)