“We choose to go to the Moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy but because they are hard.”
– John Kennedy, written by Ted Sorensen
We went to the moon and we wondered in awe, For now there was nothing, but nothing beyond us – If we could go there and could see what we saw, Then how could we come back to famine and war ? Just think of the challenges still to explore, The missions to finally bond us. We stood on the moon and we finally shone, We tested our nerve and we found we were equal – Now climate and poverty prove a tough sequel. But conquer we shall !, to learn from discoverings. We went to the moon, now it’s time to move on – It’s time to be doing the Other Things.
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.
The football books all said it, And they wouldn’t make it up – The more-than-hat-trick scorers In the world of the World Cup.
Ten were these men of honour, From ’38 to ’94, Though mostly pre-the 60s, When they still knew how to score.
Back in the days of black-and-white, And the studs were more like claws – Before the need for penalties To settle the goalless draws.
Leônidas, Wilimowski, Wetterström, it said, Schiaffino, Ademir, and Kocsis, so it read –
And Just Fontaine was next, And then Eusébio was last – And nothing more for twenty years – Those stars were in the past.
But then, from out of nowhere, Butragueño made his 4, And then Oleg Salenko Made it 5 to up the score.
And this was universal, It was there in ev’ry book – But then the list got shaky When they took another look.
Match reports from early days Were sloppy things back then – No camera to play it back, Just notebook and a pen.
So hard luck Leônidas, You were scored a goal for free, And likewise poor old Wetterström, Your storm was only three.
And Schiaffino, even worse, Was left with just a brace – And on those all-time scorer lists, These three leave not-a-trace.
Are four goals one-too-greedy ? Should a teammate get a chance ? But the Great-Man view of history Is all in the romance.
I’ve always thought there should be a specific name for four-in-a-game. Boot-trick ? Quad-trick ? Maybe top-hat-trick ? I hear the Spanish refer to it as a póker. And if a ‘perfect’ hat trick is one scored (in any order) from the right foor, left foot, and head, what would a ‘perfect’ fourer be ?
Please stop me from caring, I just want to care no more, Not 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 !
Lord, please stop me from caring For I want to care no more – So 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. Our 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.
You always made the Arctic look so grand, All strewn with bouffant archipelagoes. As wide as the equator, so they spanned – As tall as continents, so they arose. And lurking down below – the vast Antarctic, A bony finger raised above the thrall – The rest so blanched and bloated and lethargic, (Well, when you bothered showing it at all – And when just done away with altogether, The southern seas would stretch on down forever.)
You held no truck with Circles, howe’er Great, For nautical advantages abound When lines of constant bearing lie so straight, Though actu’ly they took the long way round. And if we’d plot your rhumbs, we’d best beware – They’d run in true diag’nals, you’d allege, Not spiral to the Poles (which were not there) But fly on straight until they hit the Edge. (And two New Zealands – just to keep on track – But what strange lands must lurk upon your back ?)
You charted our imperial domains, And painted up your map to show our broods – You swelled the pride of rainy northern reigns, Who gained good fortune by their latitudes. You easily outstripped your upstart peers, And served so well as armchair trav’lers’ muse. You hung so proud in classrooms all those years, And lent your gravity to ev’ning news. You’re so ingrained, we’ve swallowed you since birth – From here unto the Corners of the Earth.
Well done, Ealing ! Macho, strong ! Build your towers, probe the sky, Pump your concrete, raise your steel – Bring the low-rise wimps to heel. Bravo, Ealing ! Far too long You’ve languished only four floors high – Never felt the bracing breeze When funnelled through a cut-price Mies.
Lord it over Christchurch spire, Just a finely-sculpted fop – It looks too good and stands too proud, It mocks too much to be allowed. Now we find when building higher, So our expectations drop – Mustn’t cling to ancient primes, For now we live in av’rage times.
Your flats will sell before their sheen Has moldered-off or ghetto-greyed. So price them at a hefty wad – For no cheap housing here, thank god ! And finally can Haven Green Now bask all year in deepest shade. Don’t be subtle – rage and shock, By showing them the finger-block.
Well done, Ealing ! Ditch the mild ! You’re pissing down to raise a stink. It’s meant to be so out-of-scale, This temple to the Thrusting Male. Bravo, Ealing – stay beguiled ! And who cares what they locals think ! Quit the Nineteenth Century, And welcome Nineteen Sixty-Three.
The ‘Leaf’ was a proposed wanger for Ealing in West London back in 2007. Alas, this was ditched in favour of the Dickins Yard wangettes of only 14 floors, which is only three-and-a-bit times too high. But just think what we could have had !
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.
“The image of Britannia, which has featured on British coin for hundreds of years, is to be retired.”
– The Changing Change
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.
Ms is such an ugly word, Let ev’ry Ms become a Miss – I know no-wedlock is inferred, But Ms is such an ugly word. And Mrs too, a mumble slurred – It’s not the sense, but sound I diss. For Ms is such an ugly word – Let ev’ry Ms become a Miss.
