An empty can is worth 1000 words.

Heckling is bad taste’s revenge on good taste.

A bitch in time saves nine.

The open mic without the mic.

The voice of one crying in the wilderness, two seats over from yourself.

Modes of heckle:
Traditional, with rotten fruit and vegetables.

Rock’n’roll, with beer cans.

Hipster, with fermented fruit and vegetables.

Yuppie, with craft beer cans.

Exaggerated, with wine bottles.

Natural, with nothing but a voice.

Clothes maketh the heckler: dress not to be noticed, until you want to be.

Your voice should be louder than your shirt.

Wear nondescript pants: either too much, or too little, would draw attention away from your heckle.

Tact: knowing not to heckle in church.

Liberation: heckling in church anyway.

The art: knowing how to be politely impolite.

Delicacy: being able to get everyone’s attention, but not too much of it.

A poet is just a heckler facing backwards.

Poets, the Jekyll to your heckle.

Who needs a mic?

Classic heckles:
I wish he would explain his explanation – Byron of Coleridge.

I take it as a general rule
That every poet is a fool
But you yourself will serve to show it
That every fool is not a poet.
– Pope, on some random.

Here lies our sovereign Lord the King
Whose word no man relies on;
Who never said a foolish thing,
Nor ever did a wise one.
– Rochester, on Charles II.

And that’s the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink.
– Swift, on the death of a great general.

May all my enemies go to hell –
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel.
– Belloc on – well, you know.

The first Whig was the devil. – Johnson.

The Fool’s heckle: when a witty retort turns into an awkward trail off.

Any heckle as long as a haiku is too long.

A good heckle is over before you know it. A great heckle is over before the heckler knows it.

Too long, gone wrong.

Heckling is a spontaneous poem. To prepare one would be cheating.

Poem: a two way conversation with only one person speaking. Heckle: a one way conversation with two speakers.

Photo by Michael Reynolds

Tim Train

Timothy Train lives in Lalor with all his friends. Oh, wait. He means cats. And chooks. And a whole bunch of bees. When he is not appreciating the wild life, he is busy avoiding work or very occasionally writing a poem or two. He blogs at http://willtypeforfood.blogspot.com, self-publishes Badger’s Dozen, and poets at the Dan O’Connell Hotel on Saturday afternoons.
Tim Train