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.
“Upto 2000 artefacts are believed to have been stolen from the British Museum over the last ten years.”
– Curator’s Quarterly
Five-odd million artefacts, Or maybe twice as many, Filling dusty drawers and racks, From Hull to Abergavenny. Boxed-up, stacked-up, locked-up long, With rusty coins and broken gems, And set by law to house this throng, Without the funds to open them.
Blame the politicians, Blame the thieves, Blame management as lax – But never blame the public who believes In paying less of tax. But no-one ever thanks us for The treasures we preserve, That otherwise get lost to war, Or buried in the earth.
Plenty on the left have sneered At colonial comeuppance While others on the right have cheered At wokeness not worth tuppence. And both have kicked the workers Who are overworked and underpaid, Because we’re just the lurkers In the basement, in the way.
They never cared before, Enough to fund the work they left to spoil – And still they will not thank us for Our centuries of toil. It’s others source the objects, We just clean, and log, and save – And that takes funds, and takes respect, And a culture well-behaved.
They are the people in control, The They who run the show – Shadowy backrooms, secret goals, To prop up the status quo. Unstoppable authority, With fingers everywhere – Except…the They are simply We When seen from over there.
Capitalism, I almost respect you, And your get-up-and-go to get the job done – But you have no patience, keep to no lanes, You trash your future for short-term gains. Ev’rything has a dollar-value, We’re individuals in nations of one – From labour-save births to easy-rent graves, You brought innovation, bargins, and slaves.
Capitalism, I almost forgive you – Enlightened self-int’rest, or I’m alright Jack ? Did you see the pollution as the price to succeed ? Did you know what you did when you championed greed ? Ev’rything is tied in-lieu, In perpetual growth that can never turn back. For even when you crash, as you will – no stress – Just get Socialism to mop-up your mess.
Capitalism, we kinda need you – The mother of invention, or a cyber Big Brother ? Well, either way, you’re a useful foil To keep our bleeding hearts from forgetting their toil. Ev’rything has a job to do, Can you incentivise us to care for each other ? For here’s the thing – we need a bit of that, But only as a tool, not a plutocrat.
This title is actually a mondegreen from that classic 80s slice of electronica “Doktor Mabuse” by Propaganda. At one point they sing “Tell him your dreams / And fanatical needs”, but the latter line is so gabbled that I cannot hear that many syllables in it even when I eventually found out what it is meant to say. And besides, my mistaken line is much better…
The moment I hear the word ‘privilege’, I re-tune my mental dial – And ‘problematic’ sends me to sleep, And ‘gaslight’ sets me up for bile. But the word which most puts me on edge Is ‘woke’, by a country mile – It isn’t that devastating or deep, And more a case of a trendy style.
It sorrows me when my own damn side Pontificate like they’re seventeen. For once, can we all take a few long breaths Before we vent our righteous spleen ? Myself included – I take no pride In admitting to what an arsehole I’ve been. We’re meant to be nice guys, we on the left – A republicker shouldn’t be a stroppy queen !
We look out for our own, But our own can be more than our genes. Our neighbours are fam’ly of a diff’rent bone, While strangers and enemies and inbetweens Are no less important a-cornerstone As noisy, teeming teens. To make it a good home takes all of you, For blood is thinner than glue.
These days, ev’ryone has their flag, Their brand, their team – I see them as their colours stream upon the breeze. I don’t know what they mean, Not any of these – But they sure look grand ! These layer-cakes in purple, pink, and green To folks in far-off lands That will never be reached by me first-hand, But it’s good to know they’re there, That they still get seen. And those who fall-out inbetween, The citizens of elsewhere, Who are ev’ry bit as keen to share – Not part of this, nor part of that, Yet part of where our culture’s at – They’re hesitant to wear the stripes we’ve flown, Or sport our crest – Well, there’s always room within the nest For strangers with another face – They get to make a banner of their own, To fly with all the rest. Eventu’ly, I’ll see it grace A new lapel or wedding dress – Another flag I cannot place, But somebody salutes, I guess. Well, good for them – what’s one more more-or-less ?
(in reply to Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Nile)
Agatha Christie cherished the Tories, Kept the masses out of her stories – Servants were faceless, background filler – Never the victim, never the killer. Whodunnits by nature are class-based, though, With chaos disrupting the status quo, That must be traced and rooted out Before it spreads its dangerous doubt. Now true, she distrusted businessmen, And makes them villains agen and agen, Not like a blue-blooded, honourable gent – But was this an anti-Semitic bent ? Of course, she hated the socialist – But wait, with her there’s always a twist ! Just witness her Nile when splashed on the stage, With Poirot banished back to the page – Instead, a Canon is quizzing them, While building his new Jerusalem – One wonders what he might behold ? A commune or sorts ? We’re not quite told. And then, at last, there’s Mr Smith – The snidy lefty they’re travelling with. Part hypocrite, but only a part, When a short-hand typist catches his heart. He makes some good points along the way, That it’s hard to imagine our Agatha say – Perhaps once the cuts had been applied, It left no room for a seedier side. All-in-all, a little less sour, Just as Attlee was coming to power. For this one trip, it must be said, It wasn’t only her herrings were red.
Charles the First was the very worst Till he got the chop at the hands of the mob – Who wanted a say in to whom they pray, And not being subjects ripe for the rob.
Charles the Second was a letch who reckoned That the country had to polish his knob – He may have been jolly, compared to Ollie, But he still was a hypocrit and a snob.
And Charles the Third is a privileged turd Who is screwing-us all for ev’ry bob – He is honour-bound to keep folks down, And to keep the upper class in a job.
I will never condone an execution, It is no solution to crime. And I have no truck with zealotry, Give me liberty ev’ry time ! So I won’t swing the axe for preference, When my deference has deceased – I’ll turf you out of your feathered bed, But I’ll spare you your head, at least…
Rhyming Couplets 