Disciples or Olympians, They always come in dozens, Keeping in the families With brothers, sons, and cousins. Add in Tribes of Israel, And Knights about the table, And clearly stories love their twelves As various yet stable. But always, there’s a glut of candidates From which to choose, And no two-tellings can agree On which ones win or lose – Oh sure, there’s half-a-dozen, maybe eight, All guaranteed – But for the rest, it’s anybody’s guess Who will succeed… They’re heroes of the second-tiers, The extras at the feast, Without a story of their own, But name-checked still, at least. A pool of six to eight will form As random plot devices – A few more names to fill the ranks As redshirt sacrifices. A handful get the nod this time, The rest stay on the bench – And of the lucky ones, we know These men are strictly ‘hench’. So two or three are left out in the cold, Cos here’s the rub – You’re clique is nothing special If there’s fourteen in your club.
Vigilance Vance was a devil for the devils, Finding them all over, in angles and in bevels – He found them in his toolbox, he found them in his bed, As they hollered from his bushes and they whispered from his head. They dulled his steely razor, they sharpened all his wine, They loosened-up his laces, they tangled-up his twine. In ev’ry mouth of mutton and in ev’ry bite of apple, They would choke him at the harvest, they would tickle him at chapel.
Vigilance Vance was awash in filthy devils From the Westmorland Lakes to the Somerset Levels He found them in the woodshed, he found them in the dray, Teasing him and taunting him and tempting him astray. He always knew they watched him, he felt their beady eyes On the bulging of his biceps and the firmness of his thighs – Ev’rywhere he found them, ev’rywhere he’d grapple – Fairies in the garden, gargoyles in the chapel.
The title is a reference to puritan paranoia – pure-annoy-uh.
Populists will promise change, And the public rally support. These chancers sound like normal blokes, Not like the usual sort. They’re mostly charlatans and thugs, With a grin and a big cigar. And you wonder why the populists Are ever popular…?
Perhaps it lies with the folk who flock To lap them up with cream. An unwashed swarm of Union Jacks, All daring now to dream – You love to sneer at their white vans From your chauffeured Jaguar. And you wonder why the populists Are ever popular…?
The status quo has done you well, But done them poverty, Yet when they ask for change, you shrug And say “don’t bother me”. They may be serfs no longer But they’re still beneath the tzar. And you wonder why the populists Are ever popular…?
With industry dismantled, With the money all moved South, And those who have a full-time job Still living hand-to-mouth, Just to be called scroungers – Well, that’s sure to leave a scar. And you wonder why the populists Are ever popular…?
Your ev’ry promise broken, And their ev’ry glimmer snuffed, They’ve tried to vote for Christmas But the system has them stuffed – Gerrymandered, rotten-boroughed, Struck-off the registrar. And you wonder why the populists Are ever popular…?
And just for once they had a voice, And gave their answer loud, And so you tried your damnedest-best To nullify the crowd. Yet all your pals agree with you In your trendy Shoreditch bar… And you wonder why the populists Are ever popular…?
They’ll end up disappointed With the autocratic rule, Unlike their current freedom As a wage-slave or a mule. I guess the shining city Must seem ev’ry bit as far. And you wonder why the populists Are ever popular…?
But if they kick you out, no sweat, You’ll join a dozen boards – And still receive your payoff To the unelected Lords. And they claim there’s no democracy ? Who do they think they are ? And you wonder why the populists Are ever popular…?
Downriver, below the final bridge, The last of the swans patrol – To meet the early terns, who reach Only this far from their native shoal. Passing strangers, side-by-side, Sharing the brackish tide.
Up-ocean, above the muddy flats, The first of the mussels are found To meet the sticklebacks and sprats, On the down-stream, up-bore bound. Passing currents, slow and wide, Sharing the brackish tide.
Coventry architecture before and after images taken from Coventry Now & Then
Ghost Town
Coventry once was the jewell of the Midlands, And Dreseden the Diamond of Saxony. The War did for them, of course, levelled them both, Cursed for their beauty and factories. But these days, one is a beauty again, And the other became a byword for blight – The perfect place for filming dystopian dramas, With not a tourist in sight. And half of its wounds are self-inflicted, As if the subconscious penance we pay For the vengeful bombing to tear down beauty – Is that why the concrete has to stay ? But the truth is, the Luftwaffe finished the job That the Council themselves had already begun. It streaks so grimy whenever it rains, Yet is equally harsh and grey in the sun. It’s called ‘brutalist’ for a reason – Because it’s so raw, like a wound across the eyes. And meanwhile Dresden has put on her ballgown, No longer cowering under the skies. Coventry once was the jewell of the Midlands, But now reduced to a national joke. It’s a place for slums and traffic jams, But it’s no place for Coventry folk.
Reparations ? What, today ? Two hundred years too late ? And how to choose who has to pay ? Best think it through now, mate… White men ran the slave trade, true, And I’m a man and also white – But don’t charge me for grievance due, I played no part in the blight. While others wreaked this tragedy, It’s not me, mate, and not my folks – I come from village farmhands, see, From ordinary blokes. While others banked the whole affair, Or clapped the chain or cracked the whip, We never owned a single share, Nor crewed a single ship. So don’t try laying on the guilt For crimes my bloodline never did – The damnable at which you tilt Were not my fam’ly, kid. I bear no blemish on my name, I bear no once-and-future sin – Don’t think that you can judge my blame By the colour of my skin. It’s not me mate, and not my genes, My hands are clean, my soul is light – So spare your wrath for dukes and queens, Not me, mate – get it right ! You may claim Britain was kept afloat By ev’ry Caribbean crop – Yet my folks never even had the vote To make it stop. My ancestors were starved and bruised, And sometimes even outright killed – They all were wage-slaves, much abused By the lords whose lands they tilled. It wasn’t as bad, of course, as chattel, But still bloody bad, in its way. But yours were worse – you’ve won the battle – Is that what you want me to say ? Alright, I’ll say it – cos I get it, I do – But they’re not you and they’re not me. So even if my blood were blue, My soul would still bloom free – For the faults of our great-great-grands back when Have died with them, and passed away – Look, nobody alive back then Is still alive today. For none of us in here’s a slaver, No-one’s whitewashing the trade – So please, just do us all a favour, And find a new crusade. Is there still inequality ? For sure – not race, but class. We need to target poverty, Not grievances of the past. Inherited wealth ? Old foundations ? Tax the rich, then, to redress – And give the reparations To the schools and the NHS. But your way feels like liberal creds To buy-off the guilt and pain – For giving a payout is putting a price on their heads All over again.
1. May comes bounding down the year As eager as a springer spaniel. Ev’rybody knows she’s here, A bursting, blooming, early annual. May comes blowing from the south As teasing as a cuckoo’s call She’s closing up old Winter’s mouth By throwing off her woollen shawl.
2. A little rain in May Is sweeter than an April shower – Though the high Spring skies may glower, We know they will not last the day. The clouds are silvery, not grey, Less thunderheads than fairy towers, Washing lambs and spritzing flowers, Dropping by, then on their way.
3. May – the name says it all. The month when it might, When it should – Ah, but will it ? The month that may have a squall Or a heatwave, Or a dozen other weathers Come to fill it. Could be a late gasp of snow up on the hills While the valleys open windows, And the breezes spin the mills. Such is the fortune In the month of maybe May. When all of this could happen In a week, Or in a day.
Vendor 1 Spring is finally here To brighten the year, Bringing birds on the wing. Spring has finally smiled, Like a favourite child, And it’s making me sing.
Vendors 2 & 3 Yes it’s finally here, The buds are in gear To end Wintertime’s sting.
Vendor 1 The sun is shining for me, And ev’rybody I see,
Vendors 1, 2 & 3 And it’s making us sing.
Punter enters. He doesn’t sing.
Punter Morning. Copy of the Times and a packet of Polos please.
Vendor 1 Now come on buddy, Let’s hear some sunshine outta you. Now don’t be shy, Just sing me one line, why don’t you ?
Punter Well, you’re certainly cheerful this morning.
Vendors 2 & 3 Now come on buddy, Don’t give an earful, that won’t do. Just sing up buddy, If we’re so cheerful, why ain’t you ?
Punter You guys as well ? Seems everyone’s singing today.
Vendor 1 Ev’ryone except…
Vendors 2 & 3 Mr Misery, ole Mr Misery
Vendor 1 He ain’t got a note of joy to spread.
Vendors 2 & 3 No sir, no sir no way.
Vendor Best stay away from….
Vendors 2 & 3 Mr Misery, he’s got no fizz, you see.
Vendor 1 Wish he’d rain on someone else instead.
Punter Hey come on, I just want a Times and some Polos.
Vendor 1 You don’t get nothing in this life, Unless you gonna sing for it.
Vendors 2 & 3 Doo-wop-doo-wop.
Vendor 1 Said you don’t get nothing in this life, Unless you gonna sing for it.
Vendors 2 & 3 Doo-wop-doo-wop-a-lop-a-doo.
Punter Seriously ?
Vendor 1 If you wanna get something in this life, Then let me hear you sing for it.
Punter Alright !
The Punter sings really badly.
Punter Please may I have a copy of the Times And some Polos…um…and a pound of limes ?
The Vendors clutch their heads in pain. The Punter backs off, embarrassed.
A News Reporter appears on the scene with a microphone.
News Reporter Yes, it’s another cruel case of discrimination against the tone deaf by musical theatre. Reporting for the BBC, this is… (singing) Pheobe Leigh !
Rhyming Couplets 