Ballet, op’ra and poetry – Loved by luvvies and the BBC But otherwise ignored by all and quite right too. Up their own arses, these brown-nose arts Are permanent’ly trapped in a bubble of farts Just like the upper-chattering classes talking poo. Please, oh please, let me never be trendy, Keep me away from the cognoscenti, Shovelling tax-pounds into their bottomless troughs. I’ll take my chance with the free-will market Than crawling on my belly on a critic’s carpet – They may be lefties, but trust me – they’re just a bunch of toffs.
So you say you don’t like my fill-in-the-blank, Well okay grandad, off you trot, So you think my taste is ‘square’ and ‘rank’, Well God bless you and off you trot, And love what you love and leave what you don’t, And tell what you will and spare what you won’t, But if you can’t wait to gossip what you hate, Well groovy, daddy-o, off you trot, Don’t let me stop you, but hold on there, Just let me work out how much I care While I crank my fav’rit song upto ten – WHAT’S THAT ? SAY WHAT ? COME AGEN ? You were prob’ly calling it a ‘din’ and ‘rot’ Cos these days, whinging’s all you got – So I guess you don’t like the whole ‘darn’ lot, But don’t worry, geezer, off you trot.
I could lie here for hours, Lie in tranquillity, Keep all your showers and saunas from me. There’s only one way for seeping out grime, I just need a tub and a loofah – and time. Secluded, alone, with my own private lake, I soak in the warmth as I soak out the ache, I massage my fingers through lathering cream, And I breathe in the salts with the tickle’ing steam. And eyes closed, transposed, I lie, And nothing will matter until I’m dry. I let wash away all the pressure and bile. So go on without me, at least for a while.
I always imagine a bath is the perfect place to mine inspiration, but I think the brevity of this poem shows how little I find. I’m more likely to turn up forty winks – and nothing wrong with that.
Tucked up under the eaves of the church The gargoyles lurk upon their haunches, Spindly fingers stroking their paunches. Out the corners of my eye they lurch, But when I turn, they’re stony still – A sneer on every maul and bill. “You can’t fool me by playing statue, Because, one of these days, I’ll catch you !”
Craning up at the eaves of the church, I’m staring-out their stones and mortar, Gagging on their breath of fetid water. Square is my gaze upon their perch, Just waiting for their craggy blink To prove they move as much as they stink. But I stare in vain, and most unwise, When one of them gurgles, and spits in my eyes.
See all of your princes who grasp at our lives With their handshakes and greased palms and fists wrapped in cotton – They claw for a kingdom where sleight-of-hand thrives, But their fingers are crossed and their nails are all rotten. You keep all your holdings tight under your thumb As your signet-wrapped digits are stroking your beard – But grips can be prised as the years render numb, And the light-fingered upstarts are squeezing you plum, And there’s no-one to catch you when ’last you succumb – Your talons are chipped and too weak, in the end, to be feared.
It always has to be that way, because it’s always been that way – And if there were another way, already it would be that way. You really think you can disclaim a thousand years of just-the-same ? The lesson you will learn at last: your future lies all in the past.
Here we go again, another day, Much like the day before, Much like tomorrow, and tomorrow, Leading on to evermore. So here we go again, along the way – At least we know the score, As neither happiness nor sorrow, But the daily drills that bore.
It shouldn’t be like this, we know, This life, it shouldn’t be like this, But where did all our future go, With so few larks to reminisce ? We cursed how Sundays crept so slow, Now years of them have been and gone, With precious little work to show – Just what the hell was going on ?
I guess we had a time or two – I bet we did, in all that time, In all the endless pantomime, We must have done what young folk do. But things have settled down, of course, Along the way, we’ve settled down In quiet suburbs out-of-town, And joined the lonely labour force.
And here we go again, another day, Just like the year before, Just like the way we always swore We’d never let become this grey. But we were young and so naive To think that we were special then, To never lose and never grieve – Till slowly if turned into when.
It shouldn’t be like this, we know, This life. It needn’t be like this. If we can just recall the bliss Before the endless status quo. If only for a moment, let us play Upon a Sunday slow – Tomorrows and tomorrows come and go, But now is still today.
Bank Holiday Monday – It’s just two Sundays in a row. Why must we clone the one day Where the time ticks-by so slow ? The world is closed by three, As people lose their appetite – And though we know tomorrow’s free, We stay home Sunday night. Then comes the dreaded day When we have to do stuff, rain or gust, We must not let it waste away Without the National Trust. But here’s a thought, I say, When we need a break to stay ahead – Let’s all take off a Friday, And get two Saturdays instead !
Rhyming Couplets 