In His Own Write/A Spaniard In The Works

I recently got myself a copy of John Lennon's In His Own Write and Spaniard In the Works in one handsome volume. I recall reading it years ago but had the desire to familiarise myself with it. I'm glad now that I did so. Whilst reading it I found my cynicism rising up inside of me. It's filled with Lennon's doodles, poems and short fiction, the prose conisting entirely of his own personal nonsensical style, namely changing certain words to one similar in pronunciation. It's obvious to me that these were only published because they were by John Lennon; similarly, Stephen King could have his shopping lists or his notes for the milkman published simply because they were his. If some unknown had produced this stuff and offered it for publication he might have ened up in some lunatic asylum; certainly not the Dakota Building in New York. Although amusing and enjoyable in places it is largely unreadable because of the nonsense prose style. However, I reckon it's worth reading if only to claim that one has read it. My opinion and I'm entitled to that! Here's a sample.

I sat belonely down a tree,

Humbled, fat and small.

A little lady sing to me

I couldn't see at all.

I'm looking up and at the sky,

To find such wondrous voice.

Puzzly puzzle, wonder why,

I hear but have no choice.

'Speak up, come forth, you ravel me',

I potty menthol shout.

'I know you hiddy by this tree'.

But still she won't come out.

Such softly singing lulled me sleep.

An hour or two or so

I wakeny slow and took a peep

And still no lady show.

Then suddy on a little twig

I thought I see a sight,

I tiny little tiny pig

That sing with all it's might.

'I thought you were a lady'.

I giggle - 'well I may',

To my surprise the lady,

Got up, and flew away.