At first, I was dumbfounded by the rush, And squeezed within the crush, And now I think I’ve danced myself to hush – My chords aren’t made of steel.
I just don’t have the breath to tell you, Panting, how I feel – I just ain’t got the means to yell, Or roar, or even squeal.
I just don’t have the the vocal chops, Or the power in my burning lung. I can’t go shrieking from the rooftops Like I did when I was young.
I cannot thrust my diaphragm, To serve as my pneumatic ram. I’m far too dizzy, too deflated, Far too hyperventilated – Strung-out, wrung-out, Lost my shout, And my words have got no clout upon my tongue.
I haven’t got the oxygen To sing the chorus yet agen, I guess it’s time to shut up when My whistle just ain’t whistling.
But let me mumble, let me rasp, In one more whispered, breathy gasp, Before the words slip from my grasp: Thank you all for lis’ning.
I was born where the Avon bends, The Tamar darts and the Dart up-ends, In a parrick you might miss at night, Where the Otter and the Parrett fight.
I was born where the stones stand-up, When my Pa taught me to long-man up, To roll my arrs and burr my talk, And fly my mane like a horse of chalk.
You might-be even hear the fiddle-folk Beneath the sunset glowing cliffs of red – You may just hear the bleat and croak From herds of raw-wools singing low, And spinning-out their thread. From this side of the Barrow, So it’s said, Tomorrow’s days ahead.
So come and take a trip with me Upon the Highway 303, The outer-limits of outdoors Await between the downs and moors.
It’s said we don’t like strangers round these parts – By grockles, I’ll be bound… Don’t fret, we hamlet folk won’t fuss, Cause who could be more strange than us?
You might-be even hear a banjo twang Beneath the moonraked moonlight, down our way. You may just hear a lively gang Of applejacks upon Midsummer night, If you should stray. From this side of the Severn, So they say, All Heaven comes to play.
We’ve sung these songs before, These Silent Nights, these Gaudetes – We’ll sing these songs for evermore, I’m sure, All Christmas Days – Pious in their message, Dressed in angels at the manger – And how familiar they are, And not a one a stranger.
But in a thousand years from now, Shall these songs still be heard ? You have my word…
But other songs exist, Like Deck The Halls, like Jingle Bells, That long were added to our list, Persisting each Nowell. Joyful in their scoring, While ignoring Mary’s son – And how familiar they are, When sung by ev’ryone.
But in a thousand years from now, Shall these still stop the show ? I think we know…
And ev’ry year come songs, These All I Wants, these Fairytales – But will they still be sung-along so strong, Or will they fail ? Hopeful in their jingle, Mingling underneath the tree – But how familiar they are, We’ll have to wait and see.
So in a thousand years from now, Shall we remember still ? I think we will…
I asked AI for impressionistic carollers, but they just look blotchy…
The Lantern Carol
There may have been snow, There were surely scarves, As they stood on the corner Beneath the stars. They may have had sheets, But they knew the words – And the harmonies That they sang in thirds. And we hurried on by, But we heard their songs – The old familiar Sing-it-alongs. In a pool of light, They played their role – Under the lantern Hung on a pole.
And their breath was hung With the notes they sung, As a frosty white, By the lantern’s swaying light.
There may have been snow, There were surely mitts, As they stood on the corner Singing the Ritz. They may have had sheets, But they knew the text, And no hesitation On which comes next. And we hurried on by, But we heard their cheer – The old familiar End-of-the-year. In a pool of light, Their heart and soul – Under the lantern Hung on a pole.
And their breath was warm With the notes they form, In the inky night By the lantern’s only light.
A chamber filled with cylinders of air beneath the skins, A cavern dedicated to the art of beating things, A desert for the trumpets, and a wilderness for strings, But oh, this is a heaven for the drums !
Where cymbals tsk-tsk-tsk all day, And tambourines are shake-a-shake, And castanets come out to play, With wood-blocks in their wake.
Congas and tom-toms and bongos in pairs, In a four-four and three-four and quick-march in double-time, Bass drums and kettles and tablas and snares, To the beat of the bodhran and ting of the wind-chime.
And oh, the sticks and hammers and brushes ! So many way to make a bang ! To shake-up the silences, heat-up the hushes, With stirrings of sturm-und-drang !
So ring-out those cow-bells, and anvils and cannons, and gongs, And all that belong in here – And if you have nothing, then play with your stomps and your claps, And your finger-snaps, my dear !
From sleigh-bells to maracas, via triangles and dhols, In a chamber filled with shimmers and alive with clangs and tolls – It’s a cavern to percussion, and to nothing but percussion, And yet home to ev’ry drum that swings and rolls.
I’m not a fan of the big road pushing through the valley floor – It should have been a high-speed rail line. But just what have you got against a chip-set factory ? And the jobs that get to work while you just whine. I guess the loss of green and habitat’s a shame, for sure, But your farm was pretty monocultured too – The world needs fewer humans, as I hope you would agree, And a lot less of consumption, making-do. We haven’t all got daddies leaving farms to us, and more, No, we many have us very little leeway. So take your million-dollars and your nimby don’t-tax-me – Cos this ain’t your farm no more – now it’s our freeway.
The curtain’s hanging over us, This is our final scene. We hope our lines are close enough And energies still keen. We’ve just the time for one last turn Before we take our bows – For any encores that we earn, And management allows.
The future’s big in front of us, It starts tomorrow-dawn, And so, for all we grunt and cuss, Our brand-new lives are born. We’ve barely time to learn our parts Before we take our chance, And who knows where the future charts ? It’s one long song-and-dance.
Photo by Boys in Bristol Photography on Pexels.com
Jingle-Worms
I know all year we’ve been skipping them, skipping them, Whenever they shuffled into play – But now it’s December, and the whole world’s sipping them, And we’ve no chance to slip away. I guess it’s time to be shipping them, tripping them, Their timing is no longer quite so wrong – For now it’s December, and the whole world’s gripping them So best to simply shrug and sing their song. Let the tunes be ripping And the sentiment be dripping As we flipping-well must belt another verse. We’ve spent all year so chippy With the luxury of nipping them, But now we must embrace their joyful curse. Altogether now ! Sing a song of sleighbells, Tinkle tinkle, In the snow – When the choirboys sing high Then the baritones sing low. But we’ll meet-up in the middle. Where the fast shall meet the slow – And we’ll sing it all again, All the month – it’s all we know. Ho ho ho.
So you’ve formed a band, hey ? A bunch of like-musicians have joined-forces with each other. Time to chase that fame And choose a name For all of your future fans to discover – One that sticks in the mind okay, Yet’s easy to say, And you won’t be ashamed to tell it your mother.
We’ve all of us kept lists as kids, Whenever we heard a future name In a turn-of-phrase or a parlour game. Well, now it’s time to make your bids, Set all those quirky titles free – They may just be your new identity, For all the times you joked with a whoop “Now that’s the name of my future group !”
Don’t call yourselves after one of your members, For therein lies an ego – I guarantee, of all career-enders, This is the bitterest blow. The public assume the namee is the main-man, Until the members think the same – And what was a band when you began Becomes a bunch of sidemen to the Name. And girls, this doesn’t just apply to the dudes – So insist you’re a we and an us in interviews.
Now, if it contains three words or four, It may be a mouthful, Pretentious bull, And more manifesto than proper noun – But it may be distinct and int’resting, With a definite ring like nothing around. If so, resist the urge to water it down. For ev’ry word you unpick from your thread Is a little less grand and a little more bland, As if to admit you couldn’t live-up to its stead. Till you’re just one syllable, Easily killable, By keeping-on cutting till there’s nothing to be said.
Yet make sure your moniker sounds like your music – Don’t play metal in the name of a jazz quartet. But whatever public-label you pick, You gotta make it stick By showing no regret. Whatever you choose, however you want, Inscribe it with pride in a well-drawn font. Before you can even play a note, your brand Is the first that the world will hear of your band.
It’s just as vital as your onstage-looks, As your lyrics and your hooks and your tattooed breasts. Imagine it competing with your rockstar brothers On your album covers and t-shirt chests, And your tabloid headlines of drunken arrests. Will the kids double-take when they see it From Vietnam to Budapest ? Inhabit your name – believe it and be it, It’s what makes your music diff’rent from the rest.
Rhyming Couplets 