Medea was born in privilege Who was then done bad by men. And boy, does it drive her over the edge As she whinges agen and agen. She expects the world by dictum, Who has worked not a day in her life. She lectures how she’s a victim, As she murders her ex’s wife. She is offered escape to a five-star joint To be bitter in peace, as it were. Yet she butchers her kids just to hammer a point, And to make it all about her. The most tedious kind of psychopath Who’s two-hour rant must run. With the audience chastened for wanting a laugh, And daring to hope for some fun.
from the cover of the 1964 Collins edition with illustrations by Lawrence Beall-Smith
Tom, Dick, & Hooray !
Why are we still telling tales of Tom Jones ? A Georgian lad with a leg to get over – So honest and randy and easily led Beneath ev’ry petticoat, straight into bed. Wide-eyed and panting, they call him in moans, As he’s shagging through shires like a journeyman rover – But deep down he’s pining for saintly Sophia, And wouldn’t you know it, he’s really a squire !
Why are we still making love to Tom Jones ? A privileged lad who will caution for nothing. Where women are scheming, with wanton presumption, Except for his virgin, who’s lacking in gumption. But is he a victim to his very bones, Whom the wealthy corrupt when in need of a stuffing ? Yet he’s too busy romping to care for abuse, As the good-for-the gander has plucked him a goose.
I should point out that I always understood that in the 1700s (or indeed the 11700s), ‘Sophia’ did indeed rhyme with ‘squire’ (as long as your accent wasn’t rhotic, which was lucky, as the better sort were shunning such yokel diction, and thought all such Somersetters were talking arse, so to speak).
As for the novel, it is a fascinating record of the times – the tale of a boy from nowhere who is exiled from the green green grass of home, only to fall prey to many a delilah and sex bomb. Of course, as such tales go, it’s not unusual, and certainly not what’s new, pussycat.
You should be my own people – Strivers for a bright tomorrow, Dreamers for an equal way, A better chance, a greater say. But the moralising streaks still creep With the finger-wag to follow – Authoritarian and snide, How come we’re on the same damn side ?
You should be my own people, Treating people just the same – Instead, you’re tribal, keeping score, Denouncing heretics galore. But no ! Rebuking you is cheap – I still believe we share an aim. What makes us strong, what shows we care, Is when our foes are treated fair.
When did we get so puritan ? When did we lose our common sense ? When did we get so keen to ban, And get so keen to take offence ? Why did we frown and lose our humour ? Why did we break our self-made laws ? Why did we credit ev’ry rumour, Just as long as it helped our cause ? A lie was told, A line was crossed – And this is how the left was lost.
We used to be the peace-and-love brigade, We used to be on your side. We used to be so unafraid, So when did we grow so terrified ? Now we’ve become the rage-and-shun regime, The ones with the hate-filled mouths – We loathe you almost as much, it would seem, As we secretly loathe ourselves. Our bleeding hearts Have turned to frost – And this is how the left was lost.
When did we give up on forbearance ? When did we grow so paranoid ? When did we all become our parents ?, Overwrought, not overjoyed. We’ve bought into the capital con Where individuals demand respect, With all sense of community gone For a constant “I object !”. We won our place, But at a cost – And this is how the left was lost.
These days, just as we’re losing our prude For fruity language that once gave the vapours, Just shrugging-off cusses as barely that rude, When reading them often in novels and papers – Slowly reducing the shock of the swear – We’re far too open-minded to care. We’re liberated and in the nude, Released from po-faced capers.
But then, out of the void, we heard How modern ears are being rocked At a brand new crop of age-old words – That blanche the permanently-shocked. We need to learn to take offence, or We’ll upset the lib’ral censor, Who demands our tongues are slurred To keep our language locked.
The new lords of the orthodox Are getting too big for their britches – No longer just a chatterbox, They’ve now become a gang of snitches. Scanning all communications, Seeking phantom motivations – Boldly stating roosters can’t be cocks, And canines can’t be bitches.
Who invented dreadlocks ? I honestly don’t care, Anymore than who should get to sport blond hair. No one-individual Gets to tell us how to dress, Though there’s plenty self-appointees who will do so, nonetheless. They want to segregate our tastes By banning admiration, And assigning each of us a race with no miscegenation. Appropriating history And guilt about the past Into a streak of pompous and self-righteous counterblast. This is the Left at its ugliest, So puritan, so sure – When our romanticism turns to petty civil war. Equality, fraternity, They both must come to grief, As liberty herself makes way for the canceller-in-chief. But culture is an interchange, Not a way of scoring points – And no rule can be airtight when there’s far too many joints. So the mixing carries-on regardless, Like it’s always done – Cos culture’s not a lecture, it’s in way of having fun !
Up flame, dance impatient, Crackling to your own beat, Curling round the branches, And licking round my feet. Here I am the scarecrow That you ritually kill – The Lord of the Pyre And the King of the Hill. I am the sacrificial Guy Whose kindling-fate you lit, I am the coal-black scapegoat To be roasted on the spit. See my hellfire cloak me As your breezes stoke them on, The terrorist within you Who is never truly gone. This martyrdom you’re making Will just fan the flames, no doubt. Purge me all you might, But you will never smoke me out.
Up flame, and choke your carbon, Set your atoms free – Scatter your particulates, Increase your entropy ! Call my name with rockets As they whizz throughout the lands, Write my name with sparklers Till they burn your little hands. Light the sky with blood-red gold So high above the rafter – You hear that crack that echoes back ? It’s really just my laughter. I am the roaring limelight As it bathes me head to toe – I am the phoenix rising, And the ever-afterglow. I am the Guy eternal You’ll forever set alight – Remember, each November – You’ll remember me alright !
I’ve always hated that verse – To take a disobedient, wayward son, A glutton and drunkard, and maybe something worse – And to drag him to the elders, and call on ev’ryone To muster at the gate of the town To take up stones, and put him down.
But I recently heard a theory That asks what parents would willing follow ? After all, it costs them so dearly, And any sense of piety must leave them hollow. How extreme must their son appal For such a code to be needed at all ?
Surely this was only spoken To deal with the psychopaths among them ?, The ones who threatened until they were broken, The monsters and parasites dressed as young men. How else could they protect their town When a rabid dog was skulking around ?
But even setting the problem of evil aside, Is this the best defence ? Why must the Lord make the parents decide When enough is enough ? It beggars all sense – It’s just too cruel for anyone To have to denounce their troubled son.
But honestly, I have my doubts, That this is what is meant by it at all – And if it is, it needs to spell it out, Just why they’re thrust against the wall, To stop the zealots stoning ev’ry child By judging surliness as ‘running wild’.
Thank goodness we ignore such spite, And wonder why we keep such books around. For there’s a psychopath, alright, But he’s not the frightened kid upon the ground – Rather, he’s the one with crazy eyes Who gladly casts the first stone from the skies.
The Buddhists believe in the hungry ghosts, Who need to feed – So paper models of modern life are burned, To sate their greed. Good to know that the heavenly hosts Are capitalists, Hording the hell-money they never earned In their undead fists.
Whereupon the Maid of Heaven Looked Out of her Exalted Chamber by Duffy Sheridan
Blood & Treasure
Fortune’s just another word for fate, A golden road to tread – A set of contacts in one’s purse, As gifted by the Universe. A set of circumstances on a plate, A warm and feathered bed – The world is brandy and cigars, As laid out in the genes and stars.
Yet fortune’s just another word for luck, A trove of bonus corn – For what is an inheritance But life’s epitome of chance ? You didn’t earn this gold you’ve struck, Except by being born – And yet you think you’re somehow worth This prize you’ve stolen from the earth.
Rhyming Couplets 