Prom queens, drag queens, jugglers, and spies, Criminals, judges, actors in disguise – Baldness, boldness, hide or tantalise, It’s all just a cosplay in the end.
Human or synthetical, Sacred or heretical – It’s hair, but theoretical, Where frank and fancy blend.
In bobs and updo’s, blond and brunette, In fringe and ringlets, silver and jet, A lace-front quick-change, no regret – It’s all just a snatch and a shake.
Compact and collectable, Increasingly respectable, From downright undetectable To fabulously fake !
Ev’rybody’s in a hurry, So are you, and so am I, For ev’rybody’s busy-busy Scurry-scurry, gotta fly, Now ev’rybody’s in a tizzy, So am I, and so are you, Cos ev’ryone, from Skye to Surrey, Whizzes-round like ballyhoo, We’ve got to keep the bubbles fizzy, Got to keep it on the go, We ain’t got time for worry-worry, Ain’t got time to say hello, When ev’rybody’s in a flurry, Kangarooing, hue and cry, Till ev’rybody’s downright dizzy, Sorry, thank-you and goodbye…
Thunder is the sky in primadonna mood – Building, building – let her brood – She won’t be hurried, none too soon, Until the late of afternoon – When, with a rumble in the wings, She sings…
Soloing with a cast of thousands – Turning-on her lights and sound, And moving into centre stage, While up in the gods her torrents rage – As all-consuming, she performs – The Queen of Storms.
The world does not know we exist, The world is far too busy to care, The world is blissfully unaware To render us our due. And when we go, we won’t be missed By more than just a few.
We live in stark autonomy, Where hard work and enthusiasm Aren’t enough to bridge the chasm – No-one hears us sing. For in this mind-economy, Charisma crowns the king.
We may not be an island, But our causeways often slip beneath The silent waves of slow and grief While those with a winning smile Are bustling continents of dry land Full of friendships by the mile.
But don’t give up, don’t get depressed – We need to toughen up our hide And keep our darker thoughts inside, And get on with our day. That’s how it is – so make the best, To drive the blues away.
The world does not know we exist, Except a few like-lonely souls With whom we plug each other’s holes, To help us brace the weather. And life goes on, you get the gist, We’re on our own together.
Ev’ry family has its secrets, Though they’re rarely of much of int’rest to the street beyond – Just little feuds and little quirks, That strengthen and spice the filial bond. One day, when the rest of the world has forgotten me, I’ll still be in the scope Of my great grandchildren, who vaguely recall me, And do so with and smile (I hope).
Ev’ry family has its secrets, Though that sounds far too full of passion and crime – We haven’t got literal skeletons in cupboards Just rumours made respectable by time. One day, when my genome is who-knows-where, Those little pieces of me may frown How funny we were back in my day, As we lurk in attics and photos, and the stories we’ve handed down.
Ev’ry family has its secrets, Though they’re only called that because it seems fun. We’re making some now, though we don’t yet realise, And half won’t be solved, though it matters none. One day, the hurt and the shame will heal, As we sense that we’re better together than alone. And the good times will always be there to be remembered, Though they change through the telling, as we make them our own.
Ev’ry family has its secrets, Though Dostoyevsky says that we’re all the same – I disagree, through the jokes we inherit That shouldn’t be funny, and which we cannot explain. One day, when we no longer have a family bible, We’ll need a new place to write our names – Then my great grandchildren can vaguely recall me, Half-hidden by a water-stain.
All-you-can-eat is the cruellest of buffets, While desp’tately trying to try one-of-each, Until we are bloated with penny-pinched stuffing For money’s-worth dining that’s still out-of-reach. They all end in failure, and then in self-loathing, A plate beyond appetite, starting to cloy – Tight in our budget and tight in our clothing, We go back for thirds that we never enjoy.
Time was, when a budding poet Only needed to send a sample in To a magazine or publisher, For them to recognise their kin – A fellow wordsmith, to be lauded, Calliope’s very twin !
I guess their sheer class shone through – By which I mean their bourgeoisie. For had a working-lad likewise, There’s be no welcome-mat for he. These days, of course, they snub us all the same – Well, that’s equality…
These days, ev’ryone has their flag, Their brand, their team – I see them as their colours stream upon the breeze. I don’t know what they mean, Not any of these – But they sure look grand ! These layer-cakes in purple, pink, and green To folks in far-off lands That will never be reached by me first-hand, But it’s good to know they’re there, That they still get seen. And those who fall-out inbetween, The citizens of elsewhere, Who are ev’ry bit as keen to share – Not part of this, nor part of that, Yet part of where our culture’s at – They’re hesitant to wear the stripes we’ve flown, Or sport our crest – Well, there’s always room within the nest For strangers with another face – They get to make a banner of their own, To fly with all the rest. Eventu’ly, I’ll see it grace A new lapel or wedding dress – Another flag I cannot place, But somebody salutes, I guess. Well, good for them – what’s one more more-or-less ?
As a kid, I used to believe in the Seven Seas – But which on Earth were they ? Clearly the Channel, the North, and the Irish, But which were the other four ?, I’d say. But then I learned there were dozens of others, From the Med to Aegean to Adriatic – Time for a rethink, I thought, to the map – Clearly the rolling waves weren’t static !
Some people say they were numbered by the Arabs From the Gulf to the South China Sea, Others that they represent the oceans In one big continuity. But some say currents can separate them, So some shall flood while others seep. And others again say the seas are layers From the sunlit shallows to Challenger Deep.
As a kid, I used to believe in the old salts’ notion, Until I did no more – And then I believed in the Panthalassic Ocean, Lapping ev’ry shore. And then I believed in gradients and upward swells For the flows to surmount – Yet the tides never asked their name as they rose and fell, And the seas can’t count.
Rivers are boring when they’re straight, We’ve got the canals for that. But rivers will race and rivers will wait, As they twist through their habitat. They’re in no hurry to terminate, They meander around, and ambulate, Through oxbows of a future-date, Until they’re old and fat. I used to marvel how they’d know Which way to go to flow through ev’ry town. But gravity cares none for to or fro, For fast or slow, As long as they flow down. Rivers are boring when they’re straight, But once they’ve earned the name of ‘great’, They carve their many strands through delta sands, While the hungry sea must wait.
Rhyming Couplets 