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

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, self-publishes Badger’s Dozen, and poets at the Dan O’Connell Hotel on Saturday afternoons.
Tim Train