Georgie Porgy, little piggie
Got his fingers in the pie
But won’t pull out a plum to help
The hungry hordes get by.

You know full well that ninety-five
Is only for your grossest grosses
Else you’d blow the lot on wives
And truffles, booze, and overdoses.

For all your gurus, chants and lamas,
Still you stash in the Bahamas,
Cheating hospitals their due.
It’s time to hang a sign on you.

You love to drive your DB5
On roads you hate to pay for,
Or sit and sulk in Friar Park
And wonder why you stay for –

Yet stay you do, while John and Ringo
Languish in their funky Swiss bliss.
(I wonder what they have to hide,
To cause their monkey business ?)

Georgie Porgy, whinging still,
While boasting ‘look how big’s my bill’.
They’ll never tax your feet, though –
You’ll be fine.

Georgie, Georgie, we were talking
’Bout the folk who gain the world
But lose their soul to I Me Mine.



Unstarted Symphony

Turntable Music
Turntable Music by Mads Peitersen


Unstarted Symphony

I could have been born in the Twenties – back when Jazz was king,
Or born to Gregorian Plainsong, or Cajun Soul, or Swing
I could have grown up years ago, when fugue was in command,
Or maybe raised in a lonely sect where music had been banned.
I might have lived through any time but this,
And bathed in the music of my then;
And I never would have known of all melodies I miss
When for ev’ry song I know, I must be losing ten.
If music were not meant for me: I’d barely care at all;
In any other century, I’d never hear the sirens’ call.

“Music is the muse of here and now,
Not yet to come –
Who knows what the future holds at number one.”

I could have spent a past life thinking ev’ry note was wrong –
It wasn’t music’s fault, of course, if I did not belong.
I’m sure I was quite happy, though my passion was quite tame,
While my subconscious waited for the song which never came.
I might have lived through any time but this,
Perhaps been born too early, and marooned;
To those who say that music is a frill you wouldn’t miss
I think you lack the tunes to which you’re tuned.
Our music makes no dent, you see: you cannot sing along;
But come back in a century, and maybe then they’ll play your song.

They’re singing:
“Music is the soundtracks of our minds,
Both mine and yours –
Who knows what the future hold within her scores.”




black and white crosley turntable
Photo by Spencer Selover on Pexels.com



An album often opens with a masterpiece –
Well, who wouldn’t show their plumpest wares
When setting out their stall ?
The next three tracks are singles slated for release,
They’re polished and harmonious affairs,
Beloved and sung by all.
And finally, a quirky and amusing little number
For rounding out Side One of a classic disc –
A blast, not overblown !
But flip it over, and what is this ?, we wonder –
B-sides and hidden tracks they wouldn’t risk
To stand up on their own.
If we’re lucky, then they’ll rally for the closing track,
To give us a finale worth the wait –
And cause us to forget
That for a good-while there they’d really lost their knack,
And though there’s plenty here to rate,
They could do better yet.

But here’s a thought:
If they sell a million units, gross and nett,
And if only one percent of those who bought
Approve of what they get,
And love it all from needle-drop to runout-groove –
Well, that’s a thousand fans, I swear,
With mojos quite a little richer from the buzz !
And even if we each don’t care
For ev’ry song, it’s good they’re there,
Because we each might still like one that’s going spare –
A diff’rent one, of course, for each of us.
In life, we all have tracks we know are hard to share –
But someone somewhere ain’t so square
And digs these souls we’ve lain so bare,
Even when there’s no-one else who does.



Halal Hammer

image by Feriel Kolli


Halal Hammer

“The young of North Africa are increasingly finding an outlet in home-grown heavy metal.”
                                                                                                                      – The Independent Times

The veils hide the mascara,
The crimson lips and purple hair,
And even through a burqa’s slit
The cat-eye contacts stare.
The tats are mostly stick-ons
And the piercings come right out
These rebel yells are smart enough
To know when not to shout.

The Imams don’t approve, of course,
They fear the Devil (or the Norse !)
Has led the youth astray.
But many a goth, a mosher or geek
Is still a good Muslim the rest of the week
Whatever the papers may say.
No souls have been sold, no Faustian deal,
Just amps and guitars and a grunt and a squeal.

There’s probably others more doubtful,
But music is not the cause –
For would they still be faithful
In the Taliban’s harsh laws ?
The Great Satan’s power-chords
Do not ‘corrupt’ alone,
For censor foreign songs, and they
Will simply write their own.

The Imams don’t approve, of course,
But grumpy teachers hold no force
To tempt the children back.
For ev’ry skull, and cross, and vamp,
Is less Satanic, more high-camp,
And who doesn’t love to dress in black ?
So, headbanging hedonists: hairy kids or heretics ?
Either way, the thrashers come to give them forty licks.



Bluesless Blues



Bluesless Blues

The world is sure tough,
But I still ain’t complaining;
The race may be rough,
But I’m def’nit’ly gaining.
I’ve sunshine enough
To endure when it’s raining;
My voice may be gruff,
But my cadence ain’t straining;
I ain’t got no worries ’bout paying my dues –
I got them ain’t-got-me-no-blues.

You won’t find me drunk,
Sending curses to Hades,
Whenever the Angel of Mercy is shirking.
You won’t find me sunk
When I flunk with the ladies:
There’s still conversation
When flirting ain’t working.
Just cos I ain’t singing,
It don’t mean I’m crying;
I’m nowhere near dying –
I guess I’ll keep swinging.
And just cos I’m swinging,
It don’t mean I’m jerking,
It just means I’m all outta blues.

The world is unfair,
But you won’t catch me moaning –
We all have to bear
The occasional stoning.
I should give a prayer,
But I keep on postponing;
If God is out there,
Well, I don’t think he’s phoning.
I don’t need no hand-out from angel or muse –
I got them ain’t-got-me-no-blues.

You won’t find me knelt
Sending beggings to Heavens,
Whenever this living is given a stuffing;
The hand I was dealt
Is all deuces and sevens –
Well hey, that’s two pair I got there,
That ain’t nothing !
Just cos I ain’t winning,
It don’t mean I’m losing –
If life’s still amusing,
I guess I’ll keep grinning.
And just cos I’m grinning,
It don’t mean I’m bluffing,
It just means I’m all outta blues.



Rock Pocks



Rock Pocks

Speckled is your Öyster and freckled is your Crüe,
Spıñal is your Motör and Hüsker is your Dü.
The diacritic critics may de-tittle in their punditry –
But I say, let umlauts roll with wänton-döt fecündïtÿ.


The ‘n’ in Spinal should of course have an umlaut, not a tilde, but the WordPress font just isn’t up to such awesomeness.



Rocket Roll

Blues Machine by Eric Joyner


Rocket Roll

To ev’ry band who never hit the heights,
Who play the clubs but never play the halls;
Whose name will never burn in lights,
Nor posters hang from bedroom walls –
Who always watch their fellow dudes a-strut,
And always think “We’re just as good as that !”
Who feel the calling in their gut,
But never feast upon the fat –
You’ve got the amps, you’ve got the tunes,
You’ve got your share of dweebs and loons –
Yet still you only smoulder, never blast.
You missed your chance to quit this town,
It’s gravity that keeps you down.
You’re only growing older and surpassed.

But ev’ry band with unloved riff and chord
Can always hope that Later Times may find
That album ev’ryone ignored,
And bring you forth to futurekind:
To fill the galaxy with your guitars,
And play your ballads on a thousand earths,
And sing your melodies to stars
For centuries beyond your births.
You’ve got the chance, you’ve got the pluck,
You’ve got your share of random luck:
May yet your thrusters fire, rockets gun ?
A soundtrack to the pioneers,
The very music of the spheres,
Could see you flying higher than the sun.