The View from the Dock

They’ll haul me in the dock, one day,
To face down my accusers,
And place my fate within the hands
Of twelve good folk and true.
I’ll shiver in the dock, one day,
The haunt of knaves and bruisers:
Where many made their final stands
Before the kangaroo.

But wait,
It’s not the judge
Whom I should fear,
Nor bailiffs,
Though they drag me here,
Nor barristers,
Intent to smear my name.
No, my innocence or shame
Is solely in the verdict of my peers:

This dozen-crowd,
As proud as me,
And stupid, sometimes,
Fancy-free,
And bloody-minded,
Woolley-headed,
Steely-stern,
And feather-bedded.
Cunning folk,
And worldly-wise,
From bigwig sharks
To little guys:
Folk I know
Down to the letter –
Folk like me,
For worse and better.

And how will they view me, these folk ?
As one of them ?  An av’rage bloke ?
As someone who could someday be themselves ?
So send me down or set me free,
But you, m’lud, can’t humble me !
For justice, guilt, and mercy comes in Twelves.

The Sidekick

I’ll never be the star of the show
Well, I’ve always known, I guess –
You smile, and never tell me no,
And you never tell me yes.
You don’t commit, then don’t arrive,
You never notice what you’ve done.
I shrug it off, to best survive,
And tell myself it’s not a shun.
You always have excuses, sure,
And good excuses, without question,
Why, so sorry, must ignore
My ev’ry invite and suggestion.
All my life, I’ve followed behind
(When I’m even invited at all),
And all of you smile, with never a mind
To the flower you shoved by the wall.

The Selfie-Stick

The kids have got a brand new toy
That’s cheap and fun and ev’rywhere –
It brings them joy in the bright, fresh air,
It’s something they can share on dates,
And something to deploy with mates.

How dare they !
These noisy louts !  This raucous zoo !
These brash young cupids all a-pout,
All mugging to their stupid stick –
We have to skew these buggers, quick !
They should have eaten up their sprouts,
Instead of dining on mange-tout !
They get about too much, these kids,
They ought to learn to do without.

They’re trying to extend their reach…
They need constraining –
Loitering about the town,
We need to teach the little jerks –
So salt the leeches, swat the gnats,
I swear the mouthy snots are gaining !
Keep the little sprats from reigning –
Keep ’em reined-in, keep ’em down !
Keep ’em straining, wipe their smirks !
It’s time these clowns learned where it’s at –
They want our crown – we can’t have that !
So stop their fun and make ’em work
To pay for our retirement perks.
The little berks !  The pushy brats !

Young Love

I might glimpse you in passing
On the bus or in the park,
Or on your way to mass,
Or at the flicks, or after dark.
You sometimes wear the cutest cap,
And ankle socks and shorts –
As I shift my coat upon my lap
To hide my inner thoughts.
I never did a thing to show,
The thing that you can never know:

I don’t know why I’m made this way, you see,
But so I am:
I can’t deny these thoughts are part of me,
Behind the dam.
And like as not, will always be,
But there they’ll stay, and never free –
For even you can’t turn my key:
My will is strong, my lamb.

Inside, I long to clutch you,
But instead I’ll run a mile –
And I’ll never even touch you,
And I’ll never even smile.
And I’ll hate myself a little,
Or I’ll hate myself a lot,
Cos I know you’re far too brittle
For the loving that I’ve got.
I never did a thing to coax –
But run along, here come your folks.

So sharpen up the pitchforks, tie the noose,
And watch me dance.
I doubt I’ll even run, for what’s the use ?
You’re all a-trance.
Why wouldn’t I commit abuse ?
I broke no law, but what the deuce,
You can’t abide me on the loose !
Why even take the chance ?

I know that feeling that you feel,
That urge you feel you have to act upon.
But take my word, it isn’t real
It’s just an urge that we can heal –
We can resist, for we are steel !
(Although, in truth, it’s never fully gone.)

Don’t vent your hate before your children,
That won’t do.
Don’t let them see and learn your hate –
They’re only young – it’s not too late !
If you hate me for loving children –
Leave me be – because you love them too.

I don’t mean to imply anything about the artist – Victorians certainly fetishised children and childhood, but in a very idealised and utterly non-sexual way.  It’s just strange to look on these types of portrait with our modern eyes.

Hipster Moi

Sure, I’ll be a hipster –
If it’s something you sneer at, I’m in.
If jeering at hipsters is unwritten code,
If trending on trendies is mode à la mode,
Then dump on me, bro, let it all unload –
Hate me, cos you ain’t gonna win.
I might grow a beard cos I reckon you won’t like it,
And even if you like it, I’ll do it anyway.
I’ll sport my hair in dreadlocks, or maybe rock a pixie,
I’ll shop at House of Oxfam, and ride there on my fixie,
And call her Toots or Trixie,
Or sipping on my latte while I’m writing my screenplay.

You think it’s just a pose ?
Well, maybe, bro, it is.  Who knows ?
And then, so what ?
No more a pose than all your hating –
Yours demeans while mine’s creating.
Am I just so smug and grating,
That this sniding’s all you got ?
Well, go ahead and take your shot
Belittle and demote this.
I guess I’m not that hard to spot –
In jelly crocs for all to see,
And vintage woollen socks, I’ll be –
So come on, bro, and hate on me…
I doubt I’ll even notice.

Purple Haze

Purple and mauve
And claret and plum,
Lavender, lilac and carpenter’s thumb,
Indigo, violet, ultramarine,
Fuchsia, magenta and burgundy-bean.
Aubergine, sprouting and blueberry juice –
Much redder than cyan and bluer than puce.

The red and the blue,
And the blue and the red,
And the mix of the two
On the wall or the thread.
Emperors, sportsmen and hippies have shown
That neither these primes is enough on its own.
It’s cool and it’s passionate, hip and genteel –
Much bluer than scarlet and redder than steel.