You won’t believe how many times I had to ask AI to genenrate this image before it managed to spell it right…
Head up West and See the Lights
The neon lights of old Piccadilly-dilly Used to be so bright and silly-silly, But the screens have sprung-up willy-nilly – Boringly displayed.
Now there’s nothing but advert-a-go-go, Shouting products from ho-hum to so-so. Art and style ? I’m afraid that’s a no-no – Over and over replayed.
Sell more junk food, flog more bling-bling, Scream more news, from Bronx to Beijing-zhing, Punching eyeballs, all for kerching-ching – The goods must be obeyed.
The hungry billboards are always on-on The Eiffel Tower needs a new Citroën-tron. Buy buy buy till the stuff’s all gone-gone – As long as the profits get made.
Working abroad in the Eighties, Those were strange December days – When the office was open as usual, And the Sun beat down in a haze. But a few of us Johnny Foreigners Exchanged a card and a smile – With a token string of tinsel about our desks, For the extra mile. We offered round choc’lates to hesitant colleagues And kept stopping work for a chat. Someone must have produced a cracker, For they wore a paper hat. We would have shared a tot or two, As we briefly engaged in hugs – Though booze was out of the question, of course, So we chinked our coffee mugs. The world was becoming more American, More awareness year-by-year – And so each time, another trapping of the season Would appear. We’d phone our fam’lies later, not yet, As the locals were called to pray – But we hummed a carol in the long afternoon, As the town got on with its day.
Land first drifted this far North In the Late Devoniun And life had caught a ride as well, Beneath the midnight sun. In hothouse times, the land was free Of frigid glacial scars, And life was thriving in the dark Beneath the midday stars. And the jungles circled round the top Right through the Pliocene – When the brownest bear was polar, And the Northern land was green. In a million years from now, they’ll marvel how Our current life clings on – But there we are, continuous, Since the Late Devonion.
“It isn’t the resident tenants that make a city ugly, but rather the absentee planners.”
The Blueprint Bugle
Vienna is bursting with tourists, While Croydon is thoroughly dead – We all know why the one has the more is, And one is a ghetto instead. One has buildings of beauty That people will pay to admire – The other is screaming out “Nuke me !, And raze all my ugly in fire.”
Oh sure, that intangible culture takes many a-century To embed and to reign – But if your town looks more like a penitentiary, Then you’re waiting in vain.
Venice is sinking in people, While Stevenage wallows in grime – We all know why the latter is feeble, And looks like the scene of a crime. One has buildings of grandeur, That travellers travel to see, The other is yelling-out slander With a nihilistic glee.
And it doesn’t take castles and squares and cathedrals To still have plenty of charms – But it does take some sense, and lack of upheavals From brutalists swinging their arms.
Paris is famous for beauty, And Slough is famous for bombs – We all know why the one is a cutie, And one won’t get asked to the prom. One has buildings for humans, That are sculpted, and tiled, and embossed. The other is built for consumers With the ornaments cut-out for cost.
We know it deep down in our footings, this concrete-clad craze Is simply so unrefined. If it ain’t Manhattan, then high-rise ain’t for the holidays, But for the daily grind.
Please note that for the rhythm to work in the second verse, ‘century’ needs to be given it’s full there syllables, and ‘penitentiary’ it’s full six.
Steadfast and pervasive, From its bases out of Cockney mouths, Across the South, and heading North, Until it’s passed the Firth of Forth. But out here in the town of Bath, A person’s class can’t half be grasped By how that very name is rasped – In the lingual aftermath. Though still it’s a disaster, lad, It’s bad, and sad, and maddening – Though gladdening that ays are stronger When the traps are sprung for longer. Slathering from out our lungs, A psalm to answer rank or shah – This split is cast upon our tongues, To dance the Mardi Gras.
The use of ‘ays’ in the poem is a reference to multiple copies of the first letter of the alphabet.
I notice that the London version of this vowel is steady taking over the West Country. Perhaps the decades of racist ridicule that its accent has suffered has subconsciously hot home ?
I know where we’re going, trust me, All the signs are showing thusly – Follow me, I have the knowing Of the way like nobody. For I know where the cows are lowing, I know where the crows are crowing, I know where no debts are owing, And the air is free.
Where the stream is flowing fleetly, Where the wind is blowing sweetly, And the strings are softly bowing – That is where we need to be. So nevermind how much it’s snowing, Soon we shall be warm and glowing – For, despite our to-and-fro-ing, Still our stars agree.
Though it seems we’re slowing quickly, And our path is growing prickly, Still we have to keep on rowing, Or we’ll wash back out to sea. So let’s keep on this line we’re toeing Let’s not think of overthrowing – Soon we’ll reap the steps we’re sowing, Home in time for tea.
The maps of old were full of monsters – Terra incognita ! Back when the darkest continents Were mysteries of consequence. Wherever our landlocked pencil wanders Faster than a cheetah, Then here be dragons, rest assured, And natives with the heads of birds.
The maps of old were full of empty, Till we filled them in. We went and saw, and came back sad, That there were no beasts to be had. We’d spare imagination plenty, But behemoths were thin – We’d no leviathans to spare, Just boring humans, ev’rywhere…
Where are you roving, our Romany Rhona ? I’m running to Rome to pursue my persona. I have to keep going as long as I can, Or the Pope, when I get there, will be an old man.
Where are you heading, our Harefooted Heather ? I’m striding to Stockholm to welcome the weather. I can’t hang around, I’ve a long way to walk through, Or Odin has no-one but ravens to talk to.
Where are you wending, our Wanderlust Wanda ? I’m aiming for Athens to pep-up my ponder. I must chase the rainbow, before it has cleared, Or else Zeus will have reason to grow a long beard.
Where are you trekking, our Tramp-Treaded Trista ? I’m casting to Cairo, to visit my vista. I need to be off, so I’ve no time to chat, Or else Ra will sink lower and red-faced and fat.
Pytheas claimed to have gone to the North In ninety-six seventy-six HE. As far as Thule, beyond the Forth – But where ? Nobody can agree. So the name was later applied to places – Shetland, Norway, Iceland, and on. Forever drifting North as the traces Of habitation were stumbled upon. The word was attached to Eskimos, As called by those who did the naming – And a rare-earth element, which shows The allure it held in its framing. Finally, in the hundred-and-twentieth century, A trading post re-used the term In Upper Greenland, the latest entry To plant the Grecian germ. An airbase later sprang up to claim it – And at last, Thule was a definite place – It had finally chosen to cash-in its fame And end its meandering chase. Until…the Air Force decided to change her, To strip out the exonym, rebrand the node. So Thule is free again, ever the stranger, To wander the North and with no fixed abode.
Thule is usually pronounced as Thool-uh (or perhaps I should say Þool-uh). However, I have seen Tool-ee used, even by myself.
The whole world is spherical – I know, because I trekked it – Always passing clockwise, Passing to the left. Onto America, vast and eclectic – Just roaming, you guys, Always heading West. Showing my specifics at ev’ry border-post, Always passing clockwise, As tradition goes. Across the Pacific, port-side to island-coast From volcanic highs, To sweet laguna lows. Onto Malaysia, striding like a dandy, Always passing clockwise, Half the way around. Upon mainland Asia, I passed Mr Brandy, Racing for his prize, While always Eastward-bound. But West for I once more, and headlong through the horse-steppe, Always passing clockwise, Most polite and deft. Home through the back door, from my mammoth schlep, For etiquette, it lies In moving to the left.
Rhyming Couplets 