John Bull Jack

        1.
At least with patrons David and Patrick,
They visited the lands which went on to claim them –
But George and Andrew are strangers to Albion,
(We had local talent, but no-one can name them).

I bet they never heard of us, we’re just some hicks from out the sticks –
They’re busy being famous, they won’t return our call.
To patronising saints, we’re just fanboys with a crucifix –
Mini-me Man-U supporters, posters on the wall.

        2.
But then, what does it matter, we say ?
Especially for England,
Especially on George’s Day.
The red and the white are only for fascists –
The Guardian insists, okay ?
And the bleeding hearts will wail –
That the flag is now the province of the Mail.
People, haven’t you heard
That patriotism is a very dirty word ?
The only time, the only time
That national pride can still be shown
Is during the World Cup alone.
And when they lose, that very day,
The flags must all be put away
And never more be flown.

        3.
Ah, perhaps I’m being too hard,
But still the Left can’t lose the twinge
To see their homeland as only bland and scarred.
They never can relax their guard,
Or shake the shame and cultural cringe –
They love the stranger, hate their own back yard.
And yes, I know the old old stories –
Slaves and Empire, toffs and Tories –
Nobody’s disputing –
But still there’s Newton, Attlee, and the Bard !
So all the more the need, I say,
To set aside a National Day !
Forget old Georgie – let’s be cannier,
Make ourselves a Saint Britannia –
She can be our national birthday card !

Springtide Worship

April – Month of Aphrodite,
Flirting with fertility.
The earth responds to her almighty,
Springing with virility.
Tributes thrust from out the ground
With kinaesthetic keenness,
As bulbs are bursting, bound by bound,
To hail the month of Venus.

Easter was a goddess too,
And once she wooed the blooms aloft –
She called them up, and up they grew,
Her sun was warm, her rain was soft.
Forget the death her name evokes,
Forget the manly, fabled sin.
Let’s open blinds and loosen cloaks
To let her April in.

Gulls & Marks

April only makes a fool of fools,
But that is all of us.
We’re all believers, come our turn,
Who rarely twig and rarely learn.
We’re far too busy-bees to question rules,
We’re far too nice to suss.
Not all the time, it’s true, but then
We’ll soon enough be fooled agen.

April only sets the trap, and waits –
It’s us who makes it spring.
It’s up to us if we succumb,
If we’re the sharp or we’re the dumb.
And if we spy the ruse, and shun the bait,
We still admire the sting –
For gullibility, it seems,
Will spark our love and build our dreams.

April only gives us all a chance
To fool our foolish selves –
And boy, we’re ruthless in our art,
We know our weaknesses by heart !
We never see the cunning serpent’s glance
When we are rolling twelves –
Reality is harsh and glum,
So keep on fooling us till kingdom come.

To the Baron 

To the nicest baddie I ever knew –
Always cast as a goon or creep.
I guess you wear that air of menace,
Bringing class to the crass and cheap.
You’re not exactly anyone-for-tennis,
But behind those brooding eyes is something deep.
Your humour is too quirky
To belong to all these villains you engage –
Your smile is always lurking,
Yet you have to keep it hidden on the stage –
But your secret gentle side,
The one you hide behind your sneer,
Could not be more sincere
When off-duty and confided between friends.
You could have been a leading man
If fate had had a diff’rent plan –
But you were never one to follow trends.
And hey, at least you had some fun
With ev’ry yob and wayward son –
And even as they come undone,
Their mad, defiant laughter never ends.
I could go on, but I know you’re shy,
And I guess you get the gist –
So here’s to the sweetest bad guy
That I’ve ever booed and hissed !

I wrote this about a friend, you don’t know him, don’t let it bother you.

How Men Part

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 Bug

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…

Spaghetti

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 !