The garland-weavers’ co-op Having pruned the May-queen’s crown With the wrong sort of dead-heading, Give the Springtime Sun a frown. Well, the pole-erectors union Won’t take this lying-down !, As the tulips will not open, While the waterlilies drown – And the morris-men eschew the white, And the Beltane brides the gown, As the fellowship of fairy-folk Are marching through the town.
I do a ton of work For a pittanceful of brass, But the wokies claim I shirk Cos I’m white and working class, And that immigrants are doing All the jobs I should be doing, But which they themselves aren’t doing, As they give themselves a pass.
And the immigrants are only working hard Because they must – Like me, however much we’re scarred, It’s either that or bust. While the wokies sit there cooing Over how much work we’re doing – Work the wokies are eschewing, Thinking all is fair and just.
I don’t know the alkanet Is only served by bumblebees, But ev’ry time I see a patch, Then bumbles are their only catch. Their flowers are so dainty, yet, The smaller sort don’t visit these – Perhaps their pollen is too heavy For the lighter bees to ferry ? The plants spring up in shady wet, Against the walls, beneath the trees – Perhaps this also says the best Where bumbles like to build their nest ? I hear such bugs are under threat But here they gather as they please – Where beefy bees are bumbling by, To drink the deep blue blossoms dry.
What could be more personal Than the name I bear through life ? Well…maybe it’s my mix of friends, And my one-and-only wife, Or maybe it’s my sense of humour, Maybe it’s my skills, Or could it be my fingerprints, My fripperies and frills ? At least I have a say in those, Unlike my bloody name – Which I have to share with countless others, Like we’re all the same ! We’re pigeonholed at birth, alas, While babes without a voice. So what could be less personal That someone-else’s choice ?
So you’re the new lad come to join me Digging graves for young and old ? I’ve started one if you’d like to see, Though a hole is not much to behold. But still, you’ve joined an honest trade – Now don’t stand gawping, grab a spade !
Yes, yes, I’ve heard the rumours too – When nobles die, the mill grinds fast. Poor lass, but that’s so often true – We only meet then at the last. They’ll bring her soon from out the kirk To rest within our handiwork.
At least her grave’s beneath a willow – Hope her shade enjoys the shade. She has a headstone for a pillow – Let her sleep, no more afraid. I’ve heard it said, since days of yore, All willows weep in Elsinore.
But as for those she leaves behind, I sense a civil war is brewing. Keep your head down, deaf and blind, Don’t worry what those lords are doing. The kings may change, but we’re still here, Digging trenches year on year.
We chafe our hands and break our backs Because a serf is born to toil. So when a king demands his tax, We dig his nation’s precious soil. And if another claims his throne, He gets to lie in here, alone.
Well, I’d say that we’re nearly done. So climb on out and take a breath. Then time to dig another one – There’s never any break from death. And if we’re heading for a war, Then we’ll be needing plenty more…
The Steppers have gone, Stepped onto their parallels, Multiverse Earths, Nirvanas, or hells. And we’re left behind, We, the unsteppable, Sub-human luddites And wholly forgettable. My parents and sister Have forged for a new life A thousand-plus worlds From Datum’s own strife, But me, I must lump it, I’m not worth the saving, I don’t get to witness The future they’re braving. They’ve promised to visit, Each decade or so, And write me, though post Is so terribly slow. I’m clearly not favourite, Just a mistake, I’m easy to leave When I’m too hard to take. Despised by my authors, Abandoned to rot, I’m just a disposable Cog in the plot, I’m holding you back, So you cut your son loose – With a smile from your god To condone your abuse.
Maybe there really was a guy who said, “Why can’t we get along ?” Maybe the poor sap went and wound-up dead, From when it all went wrong. And maybe his still-believing converts claimed He rose up from the grave, Like dozens of disciples of previous prophets Framed their loss to keep them brave.
Hardly a two-pipe problem, this. Not much call for the little grey cells. But round-up the witnesses if you wish, And compare the parallels. Now, how many women approached the site ? Three ? Or two ? Or one alone ? How many young men dressed in white ? Was there a guard ? Or tampered-with stone ?
We’ve so few clues for the how, why, or when, But remember the first rule of proof – If we first eliminate the impossible, Then what remains is likely the truth. Maybe there really was a guy who said “Let’s love our neighbours, hey ?” And maybe, alas, he really wound-up dead. And that’s all there is to say…