I’m far too smart to believe in magic, But what the heck have you done to me ? I know what’s what in law and physics, But why can’t my mind just let you be ? I used to scoff at the thought of Hell, Now I’m shaking and sweating under your spell – I’m far too smart to believe in magic, But your bewitching is plain to see.
I feel your beauty cast its glamour, A wave of the hand, and you lead me on. I can’t think straight through all this clamour, I’m a helpless mark for your brazen con. But worst of all, it’s magic by stealth – I’ve set my own spell, and upon myself. I let your beauty cast its glamour And all of my common sense is gone.
One day, I’ll be dead as a parrot, I’ll feed the worms, I’ll buy the farm – With neurons in my brain at peace, As ev’rything I am shall cease. One day – in my lonely garret, Or else within my lovers’ arms – But either way, when all is said, They’ll tuck me in my final bed, One day – Aye, but not this day, For this is the Day of the Dead !
So grab your tridents, grab your horns, Your furry paws and crowns of thorns, Tonight, there’s no-one weeps or mourns, Unless it’s out of fright ! For this is a time to be alive, In overdrive, till our veins run red – There’s just no time to die tonight, There’s a long long way to go before we’re dead. At this time of year, When entropy is near – let’s keep it light, And laugh at our inescapable fate instead.
One day, I’ll be nothing but a past tense – And that fact lurks at the back of my mind. Ev’ry road will lead me to the grave, With no prayer to pray and no soul to save. It all makes simple, terrifying sense – So I’ve learned to leave such thoughts behind. For either way, come joy or dread, They’ll close my eyes and shroud my head. One day – But not now, I say ! For this is the Day of the Dead.
So grab your accents, grab your cloaks, Let’s haunt this technicolour hoax ! We’re just your av’rage mortal folks Who laugh in the face of blight. For this is a time to be alive, Let’s joke and jive wherever we tread – Who cares if we must die some night, Let’s worry about dying once we’re dead. At this time of year, When existential fear is at its height – Let’s laugh in the face of the mirthless void instead.
I cannot take any credit for the opening line. I just wish I could remember where I first heard it.
Halloween falls as the clocks fall back, When once more twelve is the mid of the night – The dark comes early, and properly black, For who’s afraid when the twilight’s bright ? Gloom and confusion become our friends To let the pumpkins glow so clear. Halloween falls when Summertime ends, When once more Winter’s the heart of the year.
So once again the world continues its Great War cosplay of tinkering with the time to appease a couple of farmers and the zombie lurch of tradition.
I meet the very best of men, too late, At their very end, I meet the kindest women, small and great, As they unblend. I also meet the very worst, But even they become un-cursed – I find a goodness in them all, My temporary friends.
I couldn’t say what sends them on their way – Biology or fate – Who knows what dividends await ? I’ve lost track of the holy text. I only get to spend a minute or two, To take them by the hand, And help them pass on through To whatever land shall be their next.
I meet the very best of folk, And always just in time, For one last breath, for one more joke, Before they quit their prime. I know not why it has to be, Our sand runs out so fast – But what an honour it is for me To meet with you at last.
The title is a nod to William Maugham’s 1933 play Sheppey which, besides from being a rare celebration of working class life in a British play 24 years before John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger, also popularied an old Arabian story. It’s so well told that it’s a shame to have to point out the absolute zombified world of Predestination it implies.
Through the village of Longbourn, the undead shuffle, The unemployed and the destitutes. The Luddites who moan in a rustic muffle, Back from Napolean without any boots. Mr Bennett says he can’t even hear them, So alien is his world to theirs, But they’re getting restless, threatening mayhem – What if it spreads to the staff downstairs ? Don’t worry, Lizzie, here’s bold Mr Darcy With his wealth stripped from the backs of the poor, He knows how to stop the rabble getting arsey, Put them back down when they dare ask for more. Crush their groups, and deport the whole crew, This seething horde of the unwashed masses. Best to wipe them out like we did at Peterloo – Before the balls are overrun with jumped-up underclasses.
Throughout the gothic city-states, Secure with many doors and gates, The greatest craftsmen in the land Were those who crafted locks – Protecting life and property Behind the password of a key – And yet, with just a twist of hand It frees our hearths and stocks.
Thus, whereupon the plague is rife, The locals dread their very life, And conjured up a chatelaine To rattle in the night – A mistress dark and grimly tall With sturdy boots and sweeping shawl, And ring-bound keys upon a chain To lock the dead up tight.
Never in a hurry, she, Yet striding on determinedly – She visits those who’s fever runs As fast as runs their sands. No lock can bar her solemn deeds, For she has just the key she needs To reach all lovers, reach all sons – Where’er the fever lands.
The doors unlock, and slowly swing Upon the rogue and saint and king, And in she stalks with silent ease, And stoppable by none. She takes the ring about her waist And cycles, never in a haste, Through all her heavy iron keys To find the very one.
And that she lifts and points toward Her victim, all the rest ignored And presses to his chest her shaft That bloodless passes through. The fingers of her left discern The bow upon the shank, and turn As smoothly as the masters’ craft Their workings, firm and true.
Her right she offers to he held By him, that fear may be dispelled – They say her bony, steady hands Are warmer than you’d think. And so his latches spring apart To free his soul and stop his heart – Her key withdraws from out his glands With just the faintest clink.
And with that, speaking not a word, And with no other neighbour stirred, The plague has been about its chores With not a jam or jolt. As through the busy, ailing towns She goes about her nightly rounds, Of dousing lights and shutting doors And drawing home the bolts.
Does the Devil lurk at crossroads ? Doesn’t he have some place to go ? It’s a waypoint, not a terminus. But strum a guitar to the croaking toads And see if the Highway Lord will show – Or, failing that, the midnight bus.
Isn’t this where mediaeval priests Would bury the suicidal souls ? Is that why Satan’s such a fan ? But no undeads tonight, at least, Just jamming with the bats and moles, With not a trace of a bogeyman.
Of all the places to meet with fate, A junction seems a strange address – It sounds like the Devil’s lost his way. Whatever, the hour is getting late, With only the hedgehogs to impress – Time, perhaps, to call it a day.
These roads are just two country lanes, That even in daylight are pretty stark – The Devil has better things to do. Now, which way did I come, again ? All these paths look the same in the dark – Where’s the signpost ? Not a clue…
Old Zeus loved to dress as a bull, While Loki dragged-up as a mare – Pan would never be short of wool, And Bast had a head for feline flair.
Such tales from the priests and wassailers, Of shape-shifting changers Who scared dairymaids – For the Devil had all the best tailors, And demons were angels Who loved masquerades.
It used to be said that only the gods (And arthropods) Could metamorphosise – But humans watched, and wanted-in, To shed their skin For a cunning disguise.
And so came Hollywood, Wigs and prosthetics, And cosmetics enough to make Jezebel blush. Till even the fay never had it so good, And the witches spurned wands for our pencil and brush.
So we’re gloriously gothic and archly absurd, We’re casting a glamour To stammer the Word. And whether we’re devil or psycho or clown, We raise-up the dead for a night on the town.
And the gods all smile at how far we’ve run, As they don a new style to join in the fun.
For all they may claim that religious festivals of the dead are deeply serious and purely about honouring souls and lost relatives, or about warding-off dangerous evil spirits, never underestimate the subconscious human desire to dress-up and have a party.
Vigilance Vance was a devil for the devils, Finding them all over, in angles and in bevels – He found them in his toolbox, he found them in his bed, As they hollered from his bushes and they whispered from his head. They dulled his steely razor, they sharpened all his wine, They loosened-up his laces, they tangled-up his twine. In ev’ry mouth of mutton and in ev’ry bite of apple, They would choke him at the harvest, they would tickle him at chapel.
Vigilance Vance was awash in filthy devils From the Westmorland Lakes to the Somerset Levels He found them in the woodshed, he found them in the dray, Teasing him and taunting him and tempting him astray. He always knew they watched him, he felt their beady eyes On the bulging of his biceps and the firmness of his thighs – Ev’rywhere he found them, ev’rywhere he’d grapple – Fairies in the garden, gargoyles in the chapel.