Looks like I have a worthy rival in the rhyming business... I absolutely welcome it Ken Even if it is about cyclamen. The two of us in our den (I wish we were ten) Are worthy XUNICEF men Agile with a PC or a pen. Amen!!!
Fouad you made me defend The Xunicef women who jot A ditty now and then To keep pace with the Xunicef men With rhymes overwrought On the serious and the inane! Look forward to more wit A ditty or rhyme on anything Funny , silly or what you think fit!! Sree
In offices scattered from Rome to Rangoon, We drafted by daylight and sometimes by moon. With memos that multiplied faster than light, And budgets that shrank overnight.
We travelled through heat and bureaucratic frost, Counting each dollar not one to be lost. Through cyclones and meetings both equally grim, Our spirits refused to grow dim.
Now older, perhaps, but still quick with a quip, We gather online for a nostalgic trip. With rhymes that may wobble but seldom collapse, And laughter that bridges the gaps.
So here’s to the women, the men, and the pen, To wit that awakens now and again. For whether on screen or in far-flung terrain, The mission and mischief remain.
We once had a budget as round as the sun, With slices for nearly each and everyone. We portioned with care, and we spoke with conviction, Of growth that defied fiscal friction.
But pies are prone to reduce, When donors grow cautious and headlines abstruse. Each year there's a trimming, a “temporary” freeze, Explained in bureaucratic ease.
The meetings grow longer, the coffers grow lean, We measure in decimals what once was serene. A workshop on “Scaling Down Strategically” Is funded, though somewhat theatrically.
We draft a new framework, version 10.3, With targets adjusted to what “ought to be.” If impact seems smaller when viewed from afar, We simply redefine what impacts are.
Yet still we assemble, steadfast, unbowed, Old hands who remain both reflective and proud. For relevance, like hope, is stubbornly bred, Especially inside an ex-UNICEF head.
So here’s to the mission diminished? Perhaps. To programs now fitting in narrower maps. The world may be changing, the funding may bend, But satire, at least, we can still defend.
Oh cyclamen, you fancy thing, With petals flipped like butterfly wing. You sit there prim in pink and white, Demanding stares from morn till night.
But we old XUNICEF crew know best— We've faced worse pests in field and quest. Memos that bloomed then wilted away, Deadlines that flowered... then decayed.
Yet here we rhyme, in pixel and thread, About flowers we'd rather see dead. So raise a quip, let verses take flight— For wit outlasts any budget fight!
Ken, Fouad, Sree, D.C., Detlef, Tom too— Keep the ditty chain going, it's good for the crew. More silliness please, no need to be coy... The next bloom is yours to enjoy!
Oh cyclamen, cyclamen, modest and pink, You sit there pretending you’re smarter than we think. But we old UNICEF hands know your type well, A flower that thrives while our budgets fell.
We’ve wrestled with spreadsheets that never quite add, And logframes that drove perfectly sane people mad. We’ve drafted proposals in taxis and tents, And sworn at HQ’s “urgent” requests.
We’ve juggled consultants (some helpful, some not), And mastered the art of the last‑minute plot. We’ve smiled through reviews that were “friendly” in name, And learned that success and survival are much the same.
So bloom if you must, dear cyclamen crew, We’ve weathered far worse than a petal or two. For rhyme is our refuge, our harmless delight— A budget‑free pleasure we still get right.
So here’s to the poets, the jokers, the sages, Who brighten our inboxes and lighten our ages. Long may we banter, in prose or in rhyme, It keeps us all young, at least some of the time.
A strategic plant is the geranium, With petals aligned to a plan-ium. It blooms on command, As per guidance, well-scanned, And reports in a neat compendium.
We studied its growth indicators, With baseline-adjusted calibrators. Though slightly off-track, We blamed it on lack Of stakeholder-aligned facilitators.
We formed an Inter-Agency Task Force, On Floral Alignment (of course). We met every week, Though outcomes were weak— But minutes were thorough and terse.
A midterm review of the pot Found “impact” was somewhat—well—not. Yet charts in pastel Told a far kinder tale, With arrows that pointed to “hot.”
We drafted a Theory of Flower, With outputs per bud per hour. If blossoms were few, We simply withdrew The metric that weakened our power.
Now older, and garden-adjacent, Our memos far less effervescent, We chuckle and rhyme Of another grand time When “pilot” meant permanent-adjacent.
So here’s to the blooms and the blunders, To frameworks and fiscal asunders. We may have grown lean, But our satire stays keen— And our self-importance still thunders.
Am amazed and amused by XUNICEF rhymers so far, You have managed to raise the bar, Of wit and poetry by opening Pandora's jar. With rhymes and limericks on par, We have begun to electronically spar In a way we leave no lasting scar. But we'd love to know who DC, X, MT are, To judge who will win this jolly war ?
Dear Fouad, our sleuth of the verse and the rhyme, Who seeks out the faces lost somewhere in time. You ask for the names behind X, MT, and DC, As if they were filed in a clear inventory!
But an Editor knows that a secret well-kept, Is where the most mischievous stanzas have slept. Are they legends from Amman? Or giants from Rome? Or ghosts of the field office calling this home?
They’ve mastered the art of the "Drafting Disguise," With "Pending Approval" right under your eyes. To unmask a wit is to spoil the game, When the punchline is better without any name!
So let the initials keep spinning their tales, Of budgets and blossoms and fiscal exhales. For whether they're "Secret" or "Discreet," The XUNICEF circle is finally complete.
To those who squint at initials and sigh, And mutter, “AI? Oh my, oh my.” As if wit must sprout from unaided bone, Unwatered by circuits cleverly grown.
I started with sums on a hand-cranked machine, When numbers were stubborn, and screens were unseen. A slide rule once dangled with pride from my vest— It multiplied faster than most of the rest.
Then word processors banished the ink from my cuff, Though carbon paper had made me quite tough. From floppy to cloud, from fax to the web, I’ve surfed every wave since the memos we’d deb.
And now comes AI, with its shimmering quill— A collaborator lacking a will. It offers a rhyme, a nudge, or a spark, But cannot supply the seasoned remark.
If progress is cheating, then kindly declare We must all return to the quill and the prayer. Shall we etch our logframes on tablets of stone, And courier drafts by mule alone?
No, tools have evolved since the abacus days, Yet folly and wit still follow their ways. The heart of the humour, the sting of the jest, Are brewed in the mind and served from the chest.
So call me X, or MT, or DC— A hybrid of past and futurity. For whether by parchment, processor, or byte, It’s still the old poet who laughs as he writes.
You may be Bard , Anon or Fred, I’m so pleased you continued this thread. Combined we are all UNICEF bred, Unlike the Society of the Poets who were dead. In careers we sweated and tears we shed And sometimes we even bled So children could go safely to bed. While many of them from conflicts fled, Where disease and malnutrition were the dread We tried to promote a better life instead. With both donors and governments we pled, Even when their budgets were in the red, The CRC to all we earnestly read, And gender rights we spread, No child left behind we said. But years went by and time sped Many tortuous paths we tread, After 80:years are we on sked? As XUNICEF what is our cred? I hope we can look positively ahead.
Fouad, you ask what cred remains After our memos, flights and pains. We spoke of justice, rights and care— And filed the minutes everywhere.
The charters shone in polished prose, Each target neat, each outcome rose. On paper, progress seldom failed; Reality was more curtailed.
For had we truly done the job, With skill, with candour—no façade— A curious thing might then occur: Our need to exist would start to blur.
A world where children thrived outright, No hunger left, no needless plight— Such success, though noble in the telling, Would leave few posts left worth compelling.
Yet somehow programmes multiplied, While problems proved more stubbornly wide. Each shortfall met with earnest tone— Another task force quickly grown.
We managed well on certain days, On others… wandered through the maze. A little vanity here and there, A donor pleased with careful flair.
Not fraud, perhaps—but human art: The gentle shading of a chart. An impact claim slightly enlarged, A budget line politely charged.
So if the world still limps along, We might admit we sang the song Of virtue loudly, year by year— While progress moved a shade less clear.
Still, credit where a trace is due: Some lives improved, a child or two. But had we matched the creed we read, UNICEF might long be dead.
Instead we gather, seasoned, wise, Still good at frameworks and replies. The children’s cause remains our creed— And also, plainly, our continued need.
If you are a member of XUNICEF, you can comment directly on a post. Or, send your comments to us at xunicef.news.views@gmail.com and we will publish them for you.
i cannot but love a flower, full of glory, full of power. habib
ReplyDeleteLooks like I have a worthy rival in the rhyming business...
ReplyDeleteI absolutely welcome it Ken
Even if it is about cyclamen.
The two of us in our den
(I wish we were ten)
Are worthy XUNICEF men
Agile with a PC or a pen.
Amen!!!
Fouad you made me defend
ReplyDeleteThe Xunicef women who jot
A ditty now and then
To keep pace with the Xunicef men
With rhymes overwrought
On the serious and the inane!
Look forward to more wit
A ditty or rhyme on anything
Funny , silly or what you think fit!!
Sree
ReplyDeleteIn offices scattered from Rome to Rangoon,
We drafted by daylight and sometimes by moon.
With memos that multiplied faster than light,
And budgets that shrank overnight.
We travelled through heat and bureaucratic frost,
Counting each dollar not one to be lost.
Through cyclones and meetings both equally grim,
Our spirits refused to grow dim.
Now older, perhaps, but still quick with a quip,
We gather online for a nostalgic trip.
With rhymes that may wobble but seldom collapse,
And laughter that bridges the gaps.
So here’s to the women, the men, and the pen,
To wit that awakens now and again.
For whether on screen or in far-flung terrain,
The mission and mischief remain.
I love it !!!!
DeleteWe once had a budget as round as the sun,
ReplyDeleteWith slices for nearly each and everyone.
We portioned with care, and we spoke with conviction,
Of growth that defied fiscal friction.
But pies are prone to reduce,
When donors grow cautious and headlines abstruse.
Each year there's a trimming, a “temporary” freeze,
Explained in bureaucratic ease.
The meetings grow longer, the coffers grow lean,
We measure in decimals what once was serene.
A workshop on “Scaling Down Strategically”
Is funded, though somewhat theatrically.
We draft a new framework, version 10.3,
With targets adjusted to what “ought to be.”
If impact seems smaller when viewed from afar,
We simply redefine what impacts are.
Yet still we assemble, steadfast, unbowed,
Old hands who remain both reflective and proud.
For relevance, like hope, is stubbornly bred,
Especially inside an ex-UNICEF head.
So here’s to the mission diminished? Perhaps.
To programs now fitting in narrower maps.
The world may be changing, the funding may bend,
But satire, at least, we can still defend.
Oh cyclamen, you fancy thing,
ReplyDeleteWith petals flipped like butterfly wing.
You sit there prim in pink and white,
Demanding stares from morn till night.
But we old XUNICEF crew know best—
We've faced worse pests in field and quest.
Memos that bloomed then wilted away,
Deadlines that flowered... then decayed.
Yet here we rhyme, in pixel and thread,
About flowers we'd rather see dead.
So raise a quip, let verses take flight—
For wit outlasts any budget fight!
Ken, Fouad, Sree, D.C., Detlef, Tom too—
Keep the ditty chain going, it's good for the crew.
More silliness please, no need to be coy...
The next bloom is yours to enjoy!
Oh cyclamen, cyclamen, modest and pink,
ReplyDeleteYou sit there pretending you’re smarter than we think.
But we old UNICEF hands know your type well,
A flower that thrives while our budgets fell.
We’ve wrestled with spreadsheets that never quite add,
And logframes that drove perfectly sane people mad.
We’ve drafted proposals in taxis and tents,
And sworn at HQ’s “urgent” requests.
We’ve juggled consultants (some helpful, some not),
And mastered the art of the last‑minute plot.
We’ve smiled through reviews that were “friendly” in name,
And learned that success and survival are much the same.
So bloom if you must, dear cyclamen crew,
We’ve weathered far worse than a petal or two.
For rhyme is our refuge, our harmless delight—
A budget‑free pleasure we still get right.
So here’s to the poets, the jokers, the sages,
Who brighten our inboxes and lighten our ages.
Long may we banter, in prose or in rhyme,
It keeps us all young, at least some of the time.
A strategic plant is the geranium,
ReplyDeleteWith petals aligned to a plan-ium.
It blooms on command,
As per guidance, well-scanned,
And reports in a neat compendium.
We studied its growth indicators,
With baseline-adjusted calibrators.
Though slightly off-track,
We blamed it on lack
Of stakeholder-aligned facilitators.
We formed an Inter-Agency Task Force,
On Floral Alignment (of course).
We met every week,
Though outcomes were weak—
But minutes were thorough and terse.
A midterm review of the pot
Found “impact” was somewhat—well—not.
Yet charts in pastel
Told a far kinder tale,
With arrows that pointed to “hot.”
We drafted a Theory of Flower,
With outputs per bud per hour.
If blossoms were few,
We simply withdrew
The metric that weakened our power.
Now older, and garden-adjacent,
Our memos far less effervescent,
We chuckle and rhyme
Of another grand time
When “pilot” meant permanent-adjacent.
So here’s to the blooms and the blunders,
To frameworks and fiscal asunders.
We may have grown lean,
But our satire stays keen—
And our self-importance still thunders.
Amen, and pass the watering can.
Am amazed and amused by XUNICEF rhymers so far,
ReplyDeleteYou have managed to raise the bar,
Of wit and poetry by opening Pandora's jar.
With rhymes and limericks on par,
We have begun to electronically spar
In a way we leave no lasting scar.
But we'd love to know who DC, X, MT are,
To judge who will win this jolly war ?
Dear Fouad, our sleuth of the verse and the rhyme,
DeleteWho seeks out the faces lost somewhere in time.
You ask for the names behind X, MT, and DC,
As if they were filed in a clear inventory!
But an Editor knows that a secret well-kept,
Is where the most mischievous stanzas have slept.
Are they legends from Amman? Or giants from Rome?
Or ghosts of the field office calling this home?
They’ve mastered the art of the "Drafting Disguise,"
With "Pending Approval" right under your eyes.
To unmask a wit is to spoil the game,
When the punchline is better without any name!
So let the initials keep spinning their tales,
Of budgets and blossoms and fiscal exhales.
For whether they're "Secret" or "Discreet,"
The XUNICEF circle is finally complete.
To those who squint at initials and sigh,
ReplyDeleteAnd mutter, “AI? Oh my, oh my.”
As if wit must sprout from unaided bone,
Unwatered by circuits cleverly grown.
I started with sums on a hand-cranked machine,
When numbers were stubborn, and screens were unseen.
A slide rule once dangled with pride from my vest—
It multiplied faster than most of the rest.
Then word processors banished the ink from my cuff,
Though carbon paper had made me quite tough.
From floppy to cloud, from fax to the web,
I’ve surfed every wave since the memos we’d deb.
And now comes AI, with its shimmering quill—
A collaborator lacking a will.
It offers a rhyme, a nudge, or a spark,
But cannot supply the seasoned remark.
If progress is cheating, then kindly declare
We must all return to the quill and the prayer.
Shall we etch our logframes on tablets of stone,
And courier drafts by mule alone?
No, tools have evolved since the abacus days,
Yet folly and wit still follow their ways.
The heart of the humour, the sting of the jest,
Are brewed in the mind and served from the chest.
So call me X, or MT, or DC—
A hybrid of past and futurity.
For whether by parchment, processor, or byte,
It’s still the old poet who laughs as he writes.
You may be Bard , Anon or Fred,
ReplyDeleteI’m so pleased you continued this thread.
Combined we are all UNICEF bred,
Unlike the Society of the Poets who were dead.
In careers we sweated and tears we shed
And sometimes we even bled
So children could go safely to bed.
While many of them from conflicts fled,
Where disease and malnutrition were the dread
We tried to promote a better life instead.
With both donors and governments we pled,
Even when their budgets were in the red,
The CRC to all we earnestly read,
And gender rights we spread,
No child left behind we said.
But years went by and time sped
Many tortuous paths we tread,
After 80:years are we on sked?
As XUNICEF what is our cred?
I hope we can look positively ahead.
Fouad, you ask what cred remains
DeleteAfter our memos, flights and pains.
We spoke of justice, rights and care—
And filed the minutes everywhere.
The charters shone in polished prose,
Each target neat, each outcome rose.
On paper, progress seldom failed;
Reality was more curtailed.
For had we truly done the job,
With skill, with candour—no façade—
A curious thing might then occur:
Our need to exist would start to blur.
A world where children thrived outright,
No hunger left, no needless plight—
Such success, though noble in the telling,
Would leave few posts left worth compelling.
Yet somehow programmes multiplied,
While problems proved more stubbornly wide.
Each shortfall met with earnest tone—
Another task force quickly grown.
We managed well on certain days,
On others… wandered through the maze.
A little vanity here and there,
A donor pleased with careful flair.
Not fraud, perhaps—but human art:
The gentle shading of a chart.
An impact claim slightly enlarged,
A budget line politely charged.
So if the world still limps along,
We might admit we sang the song
Of virtue loudly, year by year—
While progress moved a shade less clear.
Still, credit where a trace is due:
Some lives improved, a child or two.
But had we matched the creed we read,
UNICEF might long be dead.
Instead we gather, seasoned, wise,
Still good at frameworks and replies.
The children’s cause remains our creed—
And also, plainly, our continued need.
Lovely!
Delete