Keyring keys of ev’ry shape, With some for deadbolts, some for latches – Split-ring lodgers, each one waiting For the only hole that matches. Take them off the circlet, though, And whether iron, brass or chrome, They’re all alone and naked With no hint to tell us where is home. Somewhere, a patient lock is waiting, But some keys hate to be tied down – And keys that leave the ring of safety Rarely ever will be found. A life of orphan-hood they chose, Who never will be collared through their bows.
When carrying a standard into battle, It goes, by definition, hoist-first, fly-rear. So carrying a flag upon the shoulder, Just guess which way about it must appear ? Well, on the left, it’s fine – but as we know, The left is wicked-evil and despised. And so we must accept the right’s subversion, Which sees the nation’s banner compromised. Just ask Brazil, who cannot even show The sky that’s the right way around. A God’s-eye approach, and never let us mind The view of the plebs upon the ground.
Gods dammit !, I’ve let myself grow optimistic ! I can’t believe I’ve let myself get hopeful-careless now ! “Cynical and real”, a jaded zeal and nihilistic tantra, That was long my mantra, was my self-improving vow – Forever “Cynical and real”, from Shangri-La to Slough. Expect the worst – the worst exists – be never solipsistic – I’m not alone, alas ! – there’s people ev’ry-bloody-where, Who seem to think their mission is to try and make me care. But hey, I seem to say, chuck that away for anyhow, For maybe and perhaps and if-I-dare, and worth-a-prayer, And gleaning gosh and go-for-it from what-about and wow.
Oh, this is gonna hurt, I know, Oh, this is gonna crush me in the vice of lessons-learned. But truly I deserve this blow, Because the flame of Hope must feed on hope, Must burn-up hope, till hope is burned. I should, I do, know better than to think that this old rope At which I grope, is yet a lifeline, not a noose. Ah, what’s the use… However much I tell myself That hopefulness is bad for health My under-mind is getting drunk on jubilation juice. Defeat is gonna flood this town Because I let my shields down, And all because I let the bastard Hope get on the loose. So come and claim me, He-Who-Wins, Come poke my eyes and kick my shins, My inner-voice needs dowsing and my spirit’s due a sluice.
But still…but still I hear its whisper, even now – I hear it over ev’ry chanting of my vow – “Cynical and real, must keep it cynical and real. There’s no repeal.” And if that’s bleak and bitchy, good ! It’s time I understood that harsh reality’s a cow, It ain’t some sweet and sad-eyed pup. So please, Defeat, please shoo the mutt And shut the damn thing up ! Please be the poison in the buttercup, The fungus in the bough.
Please, Defeat, for once, for all, Please stop me dreaming quite so tall – I cannot take another fall, Another draining of my tao. A swift one-two into the gut Should hobble me my cocky strut And fill my saccharine with gall. Quick ! I feel another wave of optimism building – But lilies aren’t for gilding, They’re for bearers of the pall. Quick ! Construct a wall to keep my pessimism filled in – I pray for mental doors of bronze To shut out Hope and all his cons, And fire arrows at his swans, until the dread is drilled-in.
Please drag a plough across my brow, I must allow more worries and more fears. So please, to anyone who hears me Hear me now ! Pray dim my eyes and salt my tears, And help me chant my vow: “Cynical and real, keep me cynical and real.” And all you optimists, forgive me, For I never meant to sign your deal. “Mumble, moan, and squeal – always cynical and real.” Let my dread of life outlive me, For I never meant to let me feel. Chant it with me, Chant it with me, Never let my let-downs heal. Cynical and real, beneath the ever-groping thumb – Keep me coping, keep me numb, Before all Hope is come.
Do you remember, back in school, When teachers, parents, busybodies, Told us, told us, told us how Our grammar shamed our tongues ? They called us slovenly and coarse, No better than the brats of squaddies – Smacked our hands and clipped our ears And bellowed out their lungs.
They were wrong. So wrong. On ev’ry single point they taught. Wrong that we couldn’t, And wrong that we wouldn’t And wrong that we cared what they thought.
Sometimes we mixed up laying and lying, Or fewer and less, But I guess that we just didn’t care. The meaning was clear from the context, As clearly as there is from their is from they’re.
We thunk and we brung and we beated – The more they cared, the less we core. And even today, they get heated, But they can’t clip our ears no more.
Poor poor Johnny Dryden Thinks that English is too English – Wishes it could be more Latin, Than this horde that he’s combatting. But he’s heading for a hiding If he thinks our mongrel language Is a synonym for Latin, Somehow ripe for reformatting.
Poor poor Johnny Dryden Hates those final prepositions – Keep them out, just like in Latin, Else we’ll really let the cat in. Always ready for some chiding, He polices our transmissions Should we stray away from Latin In our ungrammatic chatting.
Poor poor Johnny Dryden, Hates infinitives to split – After all, you can’t in Latin… Oh, to truly scholar that in ! But the mobs are over-riding All his careful rules to bits ! Ripping off their hairshirt Latin For their English shifts of satin.
The title is pronounced PUNK-till-uh-gog-uh-low-KWO-shah-tyood.
If Gluttony is diff’rent enough from Avarice To warrant a sin of its own, Then how is Vanity denied ? Is Gluttony not simply greed Of a specialist and ravenous kind ? And yet it claims to need a sep’rate plus-size Deadly bride. So a fascination with one’s looks – why, surely this Is sin enough to stand alone ?, Wanton in its slow and catwalk stride. Is Vanity not a diff’rent breed Than mastery of the hand and mind ? She needs to fight for a Sin of herself, an Eighth on par with Pride.
Some would add-in treachery and cowardice – And lo, our list has grown With these bonus sins we haven’t tried – For ev’ry virtuous life we lead, There’s even more to leave behind, And takes us ever further from our short and handy guide. Perhaps, when staring into the grim Abyss, It’s not the time to tut and moan At just which name should be applied. But if there really is a need To see these twins be redefined – “I Am” belongs to Vanity, “I Can” belongs to Pride.
Of course – each deadly and elicit bliss To which our mortals souls are prone Is coupled with a better side – A saving, which has been decreed To counteract such moral grind – Is Scruffiness a virtue, then ? That seems undignified. But honestly, the whole thing seems amiss – If anything, this thought has shown How Vanity is quite cock-eyed. Yet still she struggles to succeed To stand alone, not left behind, As proudly Vain – and thus of course she’s still consumed by Pride.
I heard a cautious plucking Of a rubber-banded string, And a nervous, tuneless whistle, And a doorbell’s lonely ring. While the birds were oddly quiet Till a starling risked a ping, And a chorus of the grazing ewes replied.
As note by chord by tonic, So the melodies returned – For all we needed silence, They cannot, will not be spurned. We’ve lost them many times before, But somehow never learned – On the day beyond The day the music died.
I heard the constant background hum Change key, To slowly raise the dead – From tinnitus to the thrum of industry, In C, Inside my head. From the tapping of the plumbing To the footsteps that I tread, Even my heartbeat was a drum Which would not be denied.
Where are all the protest songs ? Where is all the agit-pop to tell us ev’rything is wrong ? I hear they’re out there, chanting still – But somehow never reach me, and they prob’ly never will.
Where are all the protest songs ? I mean, I know that pop has always Been obsessed with love and lovers. It’s rare than politics belongs Beside the sugar on the airwaves, Saving all its love for brothers.
They try to set the world to right, But only in a quiet corner of the dial, late at night, And fight-the-power-chords and tears Are never crossing-over into unsuspecting teenage ears.
Best to use the tools you find By marching to a funky beat And tapping into pop’s romance – For if you want to move the mind, Then first you move the feet, By making earworms of your chants.
Many believers, I know, are heretics, Spitting in the face of their Lord. Not that they would credit my judgement, Not that they would ever spit. But their God, their God of love, Is a god of hate with a jealous sword, And His book, their book, is a pompous monster, That they know is a monster, if they’d only admit. Burning witches, Slaving slaves, And all because their Saviour saves –
But many believers, I know, are lovers, Who love the world and who love its people, Its ev’ry people, without exception, When giving their time, their strength, their soul To the homeless, hungry, the troubled and lonely, Inspired, for sure, by their Sunday steeple. Point to the scriptures, they shrug about ‘context’, And get on with giving, and charging no toll. Gays and women Welcome here – Despite each prophet, priest and seer.
Many believers, I know, are heretics – And thank God they disobey ! Pray, God, turn all of your faithful to hypocrites, Help them to spit, and to show You the way !
Rhyming Couplets 