How long should we leave the Lego built Before we break it down ? How long will the sandcastle stand Before its turrets drown ? How long should we sit back and admire The finished jigsaw puzzle, Till it’s taking up the table space Where other things could bustle ? Time then to embrace the entropy, Disrupt the orthodox, And smash the status quo with relish Back into its box.
What ho ! I’m Ali, Born in Cairo – True-blue British, doncha know ? Like squire Sanjay – Mumbai-bred, As English as a phone box red. And then there’s Chang, From County Down, By bowler hat and Chinatown. And Elzbieta, Glasgow gal, As fish-and-chips as any pal, And Welsh Pierre Of Montreal, So fluent in the bat-and-ball. The best of British, Tweeds and cap – As much as any other chap.
The Nazis used to be quite rare, With few who earned the name – But now it seems they’re ev’rywhere And free speech is to blame ! These random people on the net Who think they get a say – I call them out as fascists, yet Their views leap by the day I put them down, but still them come, Replete with facts and stats. I can’t believe how many scum Are lurking in the chats. They should be rounded up, the lot, And left to rot in Hell – And if you disagree, a spot Gets found for you, as well…
Painting’s hard, with all those tiny strokes, And poem are endless rhymes, And anyway, they’re the preserve of snooty folks And so behind the times. And architecture’s super-hard to build With all that carving and stuff I mean, who’s got the time to be that skilled ? Let’s keep it brutally rough. And music’s hard, not worth the perk To learn an instrument – Just sample other people’s work, And pay them not a cent
Creating beauty’s hard, we can’t be arsed, We’re far too lazy – But critics dig our arsey arts, And worship us like crazy. Make it ugly, hard to parse, This public-funded junk – The future finds it vain and sparse, Agog at how we’ve shrunk. We’re sinkholes in the bedrock karst, And ev’ryone knows we’re farces. Amazing how we can’t be arsed, And yet we’re up-our-own-arses.
Rumour, gossip, and have-you-heard Are back with a careless, venomous word. Scurrilous whispers have their way – They’re good enough for Salem and good enough today. So who needs doubt or burden of proof, When the tales are better than the boring truth ? When even liberals are mongering fears, With two-faced lattes and schadenfreud beers, And even the press has dropped its mask Of public int’rest, and sunk to the task. Rumour, gossip, and feathers-and-tar Has shown us all for the shits we are. That’s you. Yes, you. With your bleeding heart, You’re ev’ry bit the hypocrite as any old fart, You Guardian readers, as catty as The Sun – A few lives ruined, but you’ve had your fun.
Some years will start out with a bang, In such a hurry to begin – While others wake-up with a tang, A few days late from lying-in. They can’t remember what they sang, They can’t remember how much gin – They never bounded, never sprang, With more a grimace than a grin.
And some years open with a vow Of trouble brewing, much mayhem, As worries knit our fevered brow, And gall is tasted in our phlegm. But on they came, they’re here now – Let’s not be too quick to condemn. I’m sure that we’ll survive, somehow – We’d best get on with living them.
Looks like we’re on our own this year, Just us and a million others, The eccentric and the volunteers, Cut off from our human brothers. Some in Antarctica, some in their cells, And some in their quarantine – In one-bed flats and empty hotels, With the world reached through a screen. For the rest of the year, there’s nothing wrong with it, It suits us fine, or we make the best, But when the world gets the holiday spirit, Then we’re suddenly nobody’s guest. Looks like we’re on our own this year, Remote from the thoroughfares. Let’s sing like nobody can hear, And let others fill our empty chairs.
When we were young, before we earned a good wage, Then presents were the thing. Whatever toy was all the rage, We’d write to Santa, page by page, While fully knowing, any age, That parents were the ones who gave the bling.
When we were young, and hoping for the good stuff, Then presents were the thing. We dropped our hints, we played it tough, We wanted this, and sure enough, They’d always get us something duff, From parents clutching hard to apron string.
When we were young, and pocket money spent fast, Then presents were the thing. We’d waited long these six months past, Our only chance was here at last – But no ! Once more we were harassed By suitable and sensible and bettering !
When we were young…but now we’re good and older, And presents are a chore. We pay our own way, we are bolder, We don’t need a toothbrush-holder. What we need’s a crying-shoulder, Not the same old ritual as before.
Now we are old, we buy throughout the year, Yet presents still want more ! What can you get me ? Dear oh dear, I have all that I need right here. Should I hold off acquiring gear To add it to a list you’ll just ignore ?
Now we are old, and hopefully we’re wise, And presents lurk in drawers. Let’s be honest, compromise, And save our gifts for the little guys – Let’s pay it forward, share the prize – Even though we’ll get it wrong, of course…