Promethean

Sometimes, we feel,
That we’ve given quite enough,
And we’ve nothing more to spare,
And we haven’t got the energy.
And sometimes we feel
That we’re running out of love,
And we’re running out of care,
And we’re running out of memory.

But those are just the times
When the going’s getting steeper,
That we need to dig the deeper,
That we need to cheat the Reaper one more time.
We haven’t got much left,
But we need to heft together
Or we’ll never get a better score –
Unless we pump from ev’ry pore,
We’ll only ever be okay.
And that’s okay, I guess,
Though it feels a little less,
Like we sorta oughta try for something more.

Are we what we thought we’d be ?
And are we disappointed
That we’re only as expected ?
Or are we double-jointed,
Reconnected, K-selected, fancy-free ?
Undaunted by the egotisitic, narcissistic
Nature of each wannabe ?

It feels like half-time, two-nil down
To Nowhere Town,
Yet still we’re strangely optimistic –
We’re not yet out the Cup,
We’re warming up,
We’re either brave or masochistic…
But this ain’t all that we can get,
And we ain’t even finished yet !
If we can’t go ballisic,
Then let’s fix our bayonet !

Now to rise to the occasion,
Now to mount a pitch invasion –
Now to be less realistic,
Now to spit at caution and regret.
Time to muster all persuasion,
Time to equal the equation –
Time to be more Hellenistic,
Time to make the inner Spartan sweat.
Till, one day, they’ll write our names in Trajan
In a Roman alphabet.

Let’s take another go.
Maybe this time, I don’t know,
We’ll catch a wave or hit our stride –
At least we’ll get to say we tried.
And maybe we can jump a little higher
And can burn a little hotter than before –
I guess we’ve gotta stoke the fire,
Raise the steam and prime the core,
And hustle ev’ry muscle
Till they scream with something more !

By ‘mount a pitch invasion’, I mean by the players, not the fans.

Bunting in the Rain

Please stop me from caring,
I just want to care no more,
About which teams are pairing,
Or their ever-fickle score.
I guess for those who play them,
They get healthy exercise,
(If they don’t descend to mayhem
Or collapse with hamstrung thighs).
It’s always all so macho
For the fans in branded shirts,
As we gorge on brews and nachos –
And we always cheer the most when someone’s hurt.

So stop me, please stop me,
From watching and watching,
And watching again.
Tackle and drop me,
Or book me and shop me –
Whatever is needed to make me abstain.
There’s so many better things I could be viewing,
And so many better things I should be doing.
Don’t censure or flatter
Each bowler and batter
For vacuous antics that don’t even matter.
We reckon we won it, and kicked ev’ry ball.
We claim that we done it, yet did bugger all !

So please stop me from caring
For I want to care no more –
Don’t tell me how they’re fairing,
And don’t let me hear their roar.
It’s just the same old grudges
And old jingos in disguise –
Sneaky trips and nudges
For a tuppence-ha’p’ny prize.
There’s always so much cheating,
As the sponsors rake their dues.
Victory is fleeting:
And when someone wins, then someone has to lose.

So stop me, please stop me,
From cheering and swearing,
And tearing out blame.
Slap me and chop me,
Or prod me and pop me,
Whatever is needed to give up the game.
Just watching and waiting in endless paralysis,
Pontificating in endless analysis.
We’re just getting fatter
On replays and chatter –
Let’s make a damn diff’rence to show that we matter !
Sucked out and soulless – so hard to ignore:
The whole thing is goalless, whatever the score.

So please stop me from caring,
I just want to care no more.

The Long Journey to Average

I used to watch the ordinaries
Crowded on their buses
Or queuing in their banks –
Watch with fascination all baldies and the hairies,
The thems to my own usses,
The shufflers to my swanks.
Watching all the many ways that nothing-special varies,
Its minor spats and fusses,
Its local hopes and thanks –
Certain in the knowledge how I’d never join their ranks.

I used to think extr’ordinary
Feats were for my aiming –
I’m, surely, something more.
Now I must accept the truth, so truly sharp and scary –
That I am but a tame thing,
Like those I watched before.
All my efforts cannot reach my heroes’ lofty eyrie.
You must have thought the same thing
When yours too wouldn’t soar.
Genius, it seems to me, must always live next door.

Twopenneth Worth

“The image of Britannia, which has featured on British coin for hundreds of years, is to be retired.”

– The Changing Times

Britannia !  Oh, what have they done to you ?
Firstly they dressed you in helmet and armour,
And decked you with shield and trident and lion –
An overlord lady, the Empire’s scion.
Then they decided your tenure was through –
If only they’d made you a doctor or farmer,
A lawyer, a teacher, a builder or nurse:
These are the women who should fill our purse.

Britannia !  Oh, they reject you unduly,
Now you have many more forms to acquire –
Indian, African, Asian and Arab,
Mediterranean, Saxon and Carib –
These are your Britons, Britannia, truly,
These are your faces and flowing attire.
These are your spirit, that we may unlock it,
And gather your virtues right here in our pocket.