It’s always strange to say goodbye, Especially after all the years I’ve known you. Of course, we do not hug or cry, And we both know I’ll never write or phone you. Just a matey slap on the shoulder And a handshake that’s a bit too strong, And a gradual feeling of being older – It’s all so brief, yet somehow still too long. But even in restraint, we say it all, Though we’ll never realise – The clues are there, however small – The nervous laugh, the sheepish eyes. And then it’s “Should be off” and “See you maybe”, “Give my best to your old mum”. I guess I’ll kinda miss you, vaguely, Now and then, for years to come.
The town where I grew up, Well, the nearest town I guess, Though still a dozen miles away – But I digress… It’s a pretty sleepy town That I left as quickly as I could, But in a funny way, I just Can’t quit for good. I’ve still got family living round, And school-friends I still see, So even though I left the town, It won’t leave me. Like when that sleepy town had raised A minor personality, A DJ with a surname that was known By the likes of me. Ah yes, I remembered That the same was borne by a kid at school – In my year, though I hardly knew him, Hardly spoke, as a rule. Nothing against him, but separate streams, A single mutual friend was all, And I hadn’t even seen him since, And could only just recall… Now he wasn’t the DJ (who was a she), But maybe his sister was…? My school-mates and family nodded, and set The rumour-mill a-buzz. Not that they knew him any better, But they do still live there, it’s true… And she’s only three or four years older, So maybe…? It’ll do. It was a tale for dinner parties, An anecdote around the club, Or for singing for our supper, Down the pub. So then, a decade after school, A short-term job and an idle boast When she came on the office radio As the lunchtime host. She must have just played Ace of Spades With stuff to give away, When a co-working Swede saw a chance To make my bragging pay – “My colleague went to school with your brother” Her email to the station read, “So can I have a ticket please For Motörhead ?” In half an hour, the DJ responded, “I have no brother by that name !” By email – not on the air, thank god – But all the same… Well, I was in the doghouse for a bit, Though no harm done – But then that surname came around again, And far less fun… A few years back, an incident Brought unexpected high renown, And all the national news in packs To that sleepy town. Strange to see its familiar face, The scrap of grass where we used to lark That the sombre bulletins insist On calling a ‘park’. Two names leapt out – one victim With a last-name of a teacher I had, So of course I got to wondering, Was Sir his dad ? But the other…the other was a woman, A right-aged woman, a woman with a name. (She wasn’t the DJ, who wasn’t even mentioned, They clearly weren’t the same.) The grapevine rustled, the gossipers gabbed, With the same conclusion as before – I was wary, but I felt the weight Of local lore. My own connection, even if correct, Is incredibly slight It feels wrong to be probing it – Rather gruesome, certainly trite. But growing up in a sleepy town, There’s precious little going on – So ev’ry little chance at something more Is seized upon. And that kid, that brother, who won’t recall me, Now has a strange kind of fame – For I’m sure I’ll always remember him, Or at least, his name.
I’ve always been an early adopter, Picking-up the latest cold or spot, Then spreading it round by helicopter To fam’ly and colleagues, the whole poor lot. Always running ahead of the doctor, Bringing the buzz – if they want it or not. And just when the viral trend infects – That’s so last month, I’m on to the next.
Ev’rybody blames me for giving them hives, For breaching their unhip sterile zone. The slightest sniffle and out come the knives, But it ain’t my fault they’re frightened and alone – If they only led more varied lives They’d catch some int’resting strains of their own. Sure, this world is dirty and rife, But nobody’s ever immune to life.
I should point out that I wrote this piece years ago, and as the third line says it is talking about colds and such and nothing worse…
I heard you have a show needs stopping, Heard you have a house needs bringing down – I heard you have a shoe needs dropping, And a tin or paint that needs a town.
Huzzah ! Hurray ! Hear hear, I say ! Best don your heels, And roll up to my wheels – To login to your noggin, And toboggan through the boredom till it squeals !
I heard you have a boat needs rocking, Joint needs jumping, hell needs breaking loose – I heard your buster needs a blocking, And your gander’s sauce is lacking goose.
Tip-top, pall mall ! Chin-chin, old gal ! Come step inside, It’s really quite the ride – To doodle through your noodle, Till you’ve oodles-worth to keep you occupied !
There’s some folks like the opera, And some who dig that jazz. There’s people whooping bluegrass, Or the brazen rasp of brass. But whatever rocks your socks Is cool with me.
Some days it seems my likings Are by ev’ryone despised – I’m unmoved by their pref’rences So eulogized and prized. But whatever dials your smiles Is cool with me.
There’s some folks like the one thing, And others love the other. Too rare we coincide, but slide To discord with our brother. But whatever peps your steps Is cool with me.
Hey, have you seen this ? Chillis give us allergies !, I watched it on The One Show and I read it in The Mail. Never mind the experts – they claim our claims are fallacies, Yet we know how we feel – and we’re feeling rather frail.
Hey, have you caught this ? Cucumbers cause impotence !, I found it on the internet – it’s all there if you dig. So much for ‘mostly water’ ! That’s Big Salad’s influence, They pump them full of chemicals – that’s how they grow so big !
Hey, have you scoped this ? Sweetcorn gives us cancer ! I heard it at a coffee-shop, and in a waiting room. So sure, go ahead, if you want to be a chancer, But know I told you so when those yellow lumps bring doom.
Hey, have you shared this, at Waitrose or Pilates? Let’s spread the word and spread the fad, and let our bodies heal. Let’s get some trendy diets at the nation’s dinner parties, Then maybe I won’t have to taste those bastards ev’ry meal !
Whenever someone is keen to stress That money can’t buy happiness, Just take a look at their mode of dress: Are they all stained and dishevelled and reeking, Threadbare of t-shirt and rumpled of slacks, And sporting the Houses of Primark and T K Maxx ? Or are they rather more sharp and bespoke in their speaking, In voices never broken or cracked ?
The fact is that we all of us can sleep a little better When we never have to fret about just where we’re gonna sleep, Or we have to listen-out at ev’ry daybreak for that letter That we need to hide away before our kids can catch a peep, Or pretending that we cannot hear the scritching of the mice, Or the buzzing of mosquios, or the growing of the mould, Or the dripping from the ceiling that we’ve told the landlord twice, Or the asthma of our children, or their shivers in the cold, Or the mischief of the local youths that’s more than just a lark, Or another bloody car alarm, or couple’s blazing row, Or the rumours of a stalker whose been seen about the park, Or the…wasn’t that a gunshot that I dreamt I heard just now ? Or just dreading ev’ry time when there is someone comes a-knocking That it’s possibly the bailiffs or the summons to the court. Or perhaps it’s just the thought that we no longer find this shocking, Or that were the worst to happen, then we’ve next-to-no support.
I suppose they’re right, down deep, That money and greed can lead to excess, And it sometimes becomes a trap, I guess. But enough for a good night’s sleep ? I’d call that happiness.
On some days, or so it would seem, All the world can do is complain At the lateness of the train, Or persistence of the rain, Or the throbbing of the pain, Or the losings of the team.
Living is a thankless task I know, cos whingers tell me so – The world conspires to bring them woe. A captive ear is all they ask And selflessly, they moan for free, Afraid they might miss out on misery.
A very-public service from each self-appointed martyr And dammit !, now I’ve gone and joined their ranks ! Carping about carpers when I thought I was much smarter, I thought myself the sharper who was winding-up the cranks ! Oh Irony, you tricked my brain – But dammit, there I go again !
I guess you’re still alive, Somewhere out there, Somewhere new. I guess you’re busy busy, In your never-ending rush. I know that you’ll survive You’re latest dare – You always do. I guess that you don’t miss me, You were never one to gush.
You love to do it all, To paint your skin In polychrome – You’ll find another place to stay, And then you’ll disappear. I know that when I call, You won’t be in, You won’t be home. I’ll leave a message anyway I know you’ll never hear.
But then, from out the blue, An absent ring, A sudden voice, And down a noisy line I hear your Sunday morning walk. I know before you speak it’s you – I’m listening, I have no choice – I just pretend I’m fine As I let you talk and talk.
Sometimes, we shall come to a junction We’re sure we’ve taken before – The fingerpost fulfils its function, But we need it to tell us more:
Did we pass this way in our youth, Rounding the bend to find the familiar ? Can we trust mem’ry to tell the truth When it says the way was hillier ?
I guess the world’s a globe, and feet are curved, And arcs are circles over time, And anyone who’s life has swerved Must one day find they’ve made a rhyme.
And so, this junction has crossed our path, And forced a choice of way – And still we live in the aftermath Of the road we took that day.
This time, let’s take the other of three, The road untook, the life unspent – Except, for all we try to see, We can’t recall which way we went…
Rhyming Couplets 