Strange to think, how satellites would watch us from above, Back when they flew – Sometimes sinister, I guess, but mostly were benign enough – And what a view ! They photographed our towns, and all the towns across the Earth We’d never see – They let us zoom in anywhere, from Minsk to Bogota to Perth And all for free ! They beamed our television down, they watched the clouds and rain, They showed us Mars – They navigated us around, then brought us safely home again, And shone like stars – Before their orbitals were filled with shrapnel, deadly fast, That took them out – The age of satellites became the age when flying junk amassed – It’s all about ! So now, of course, we’re trapped upon the Earth, trapped in the past Without those eyes, For years – until the tug of friction rains them down at last, And clears the skies.
There’s no-one who knows you like you do, Though there’s plenty who’ll pretend – They’ll tell you what you’re sure to love, With the well-meant failure of a friend. They’ll assume their taste is universal, For who could ever disagree ? But never trust anyone else with your choices, And that includes even me.
Country roads in Summertime, Tractors bar the way – Trailers towering with loads Astride the hedged-in roads, all long-the-day.
Gathering the harvest in, Kicking up the dust, Making ev’rybody late – Because the corn won’t wait, and so we must.
Scattering a constant shower, Unintended sacrifice – Stripped from golden fields, Their yields are fattening the harvest mice.
And we shall gobble up the rest, The bread and beer and morning flakes – So patience, as we fume to pass, And thank them by the glass and loaf and cake.
For that’s the price of country living, Farmers have to move their grains – They fuel, with slow agronomy, The whole rural economy down twisty country lanes.
Highwaymen are looting on the roads beneath the Pyranees, As abbots tend their gardens in the misty Marin breeze, While knights are walled in cities with their castles, shields and shrines, And farmers lie in fields while the sunshine grows the vines. And the River Aude is rolling down From mountain pass to coastal town, And from the peaks we see for miles The chequerboard of tiles.
It turns out, the highwaymen in the opening line were all working for Lucky Hans, busy swiping other people’s property. However, I hear there is a growing resistance movement aiming to Free The Meeple !
Cathars being Expelled from Carcassonne in 1209 by the Workshop of the Boucicaut Master
Carcassonnet
“Kill them all – the Lord will know his own.” Now there’s an brutal, pithy epitaph That any poet would be proud to hone To horribly describes the aftermath Of the one and loving Church when rampant, Laying siege to the souls of heretics – This is the cost of faith triumphant, Policy and zeal allowed to mix. We like to tell ourselves those days have gone, But only thanks to disbelief and village schools – The moral, true from Mecca, Rome and Carcasonne Is to never trust a priest to write the rules. For the fatal fallibility of pope and prayer Will delegate to God the need to even care.
I saw a bird in town today, Pecking round the outdoor cafe tables – Plucking up the crumbs astray, Then flitting off to perch atop the gables. I only saw a smidgeon, Of a flash of green upon the fowl – So not the usual pigeon, Nor a bully blackbird on the prowl. I thought I saw some speckles, But it surely couldn’t be a thrush ? I’d wager seven shekels That they’d never brave this market crush.
So, it’s not a mavis, then – Too small and bright for crow or rook, I’d say, Too big for sparrow or a wren, And far too dark for chaffinch or a jay. A parakeet ? Baloney ! And even I know magpies from a robin ! That leaves the starling only – But then, just where were all the others mobbing ? I sacrificed a sandwich prawn To tempt it down, my enigmatic bird – And yes, it took my proffered pawn And yes !, a starling straggled from the herd.
Don’t you have meadows to pirouette over ? Don’t you have siblings all missing their rover ? Are you an orphan, or outcast, or rebel They taught to caw bass, but who wants to sing treble ? Or are you a mute who can not hold a ditty, Now seeking your fortune within the big city ? I’m much the same, really, I came for the glory – So here, have a peanut, and tell me your story.
A-Side Why do I hate Phil Collins ? Well, I try not to hate anymore But why do I so dislike Phil Collins ? Do I ? I’m not so sure. I still think Air Tonight is a classic, At least, till the kit kicks in – The rest, I mostly could leave ’em, But if you dig ’em, I guess you win.
No, the reason I hate…no, never hate, But maybe biting my thumbs, Is all because he single-handed killed the 80s With his drums – His thudding, crushing, reverb-hushing, Stop-and-starty gated drums ! His all-commanding, corp’rate-branding, Undecaying zombie drums !
It’s not all of Phil Collins’s fault, of course, He only rubbed the lamp, And soon the genius was loose To spread itself through desk and amp – Producers loved its soulless beats That never swing or soothe, And ev’ry engineer beheld The emperor’s new groove.
It took us all the decade to wake up, Ten years too late, To suss the subtleties we’d lost When drumskins don’t vibrate. How many tunes that now sound dated, Could instead have sounded great ? So this is why I curse Phil Collins – Cos he opened up the gate !
B-Side But what do I know, and what does he care ? He’s loved by thousands ev’ry day – So he’s the famous millionaire, And I’m just the whinging, self-smug square Who cannot even play. So I don’t like his drums ? So what ? Is that the best I’ve got To think that I can moan away ?
You know what I hate about Phil Collins ? I hate how he makes me hate. How all of my petty ugliness Is rising to the bait. He lets me let myself off the hook And lets my mouth run free – As if my taste is the only taste, And I dare you to disagree.
So sing it, Phil ! Sing it inspite of me, Sing it to frighten me Out of my combative them-and-us cry. Ignore my stridency, Forgive my overkill, Try to enlighten me – Live and let live till we die.
I guess this is where the toms come in, The final chorus beckons, I see. Could we just let them ring out for once, do you reckon, Just for me ? Ungate my heart, take me out of the 80s, And into a decade of long decay – Or else let’s part, and never be haters. Bang the drum – not fade away.
These forests grow like chequer-boards, Their heads are said to lowly growl – The sea will lash their thousand bolts, As slowly twists each triple-swords To whisk the wind and steal its howl For grinding watts and milling volts.
It could be as simple and routine, As lining-up the keyboard, square, The practised switch to light the screen, The pulling-up of a chair, Or nudging the mouse, that nudges the brain – With a ‘ho-hum, there’s that feeling again’. It’s not even deja vu, just a mild surprise It’s just a slow ‘oh yeah’ as we realise That we did this very action in just this way Just yesterday, And we say ‘but that was only an hour ago, Or maybe two, but not any more…’ But no – we know, we always know, We’ve had all twenty-four since we did it last, Our days tick by so slow and skip so fast.
Rhyming Couplets 