To appease our vengeful God, there’s this sacrifice That really is no sacrifice at all, Of a man who’s really God, and who knows he’s really God, And who knows he’s coming back, as I recall. I guess it must have hurt, but he’s pretty damn inert To the pain, when he knows he’s really God. So why was there the need for our saviour to bleed To appease his other Self ? So very odd.
I know why you think that it’s a sacrifice: It’s all for Original damn Sin. But Eve disobeyed when her questing was displayed; She’s a hero – let our sciences begin ! We’d done nothing, it transpired, no apology required – Just a god wracked with fetishistic pain. But the Romans can take pride for their Friday deicide, Thereby lengthening the weekend with their slain.
A Blackthorn Easter falls in March, When Easter seems to come too soon – But when it’s April, then we see An Appleblossom Easter bloom – And when it’s late, we celebrate A Cherry Easter at its boom – When leafless boughs are full of flowers, Sprung from out of Winter’s tomb.
Once upon a rail, When the locomotives first set sail, Their engineers, they already knew That these were not just drab machines – No, each was special to her crew, Bedecked and tendered like a queen – And painted – donned with pride and with blue, Protected with their red, and enamoured with their green.
Stephenson Trials Melanie Marr, coming home on the train From a day-out in York and the Railway Museum – So many locos, and no time to see them, And only their colours stood out, in the main. From the first Locomotive, a wood-and-black fellow, The blaze of the Rocket, so pristine, so yellow !, To Brightons in umber, and Cambrian grey – But the big four were coming to sweep them away…
Brunswick A little lighter than British Racing, But darker than Southern and LNER – The perfect green, thought Melanie Marr, A green both dignified and bracing ! So Great Westerns got her vote, If she really had to make a pick. Some may call it middle Brunswick, They just called it locomotive.
Malachite Melanie never like malachite, Forever sandwiched inbetween – It wasn’t deep and it wasn’t bright, But under-ripe, and over-green. They could have had electric blue, Or merchant-navy silver grey – However fast the boat-train flew, That green would never save the day.
Apple The apple was fine, but they just couldn’t settle – A little unsure on the colour of metal. The Mallard was blue, much to Melanie’s sighs, With garter and overcoat worn in disguise. They’d muddied their branding, they’d chilled their panache – Are apples too homely for cutting a dash ? Why be so ashamed of so fruitful a sheen ? If you’re gonna break records, then break them in green !
Crimson Lake A name, she thought, like a matinee idol – A Paisley lass, or maybe Crewe, Who caught the deep red train to London, Changing her name, and her accent too. By the time she disembarked at Euston, She already was a star – Ready to faint in the melodramas, Ready to dine in the restaurant car.
Rail Blue British Railways had the pick, And flirted with a lively blue, But switched it back to Brunswick, quick, And endless green would have to do. But when the Railways stubbed to Rail, They tried a blue which hid the dirt – For Melanie, no greater hurt Could now disgrace the midnight mail.
Franchise Rainbow Privitised, and multi-coloured, Trains of ev’ry shade but beige – And some are old Great Western-dressed, But Melanie is not impressed. Call her spotter, call her dullard, But that was a diff’rent age – Now trains are sleek, but lacking sheen – Yet marketed by all as ‘green’.
Maroon The final leg to Rayners Lane, Yet not a trace inside the train Of the gorgeous purple of the Met. The tube-line on the map is all we get. But once the poles and seats would say That here maroon could still be found Within her train to work each day, When she was scarlet-fronted, Euston-bound.
The Future’s Bright Melanie, though now retired, Imagines what intrepid acts Await for her on down the tracks To get her boiler fired. In any livery, it’s plain That market-men have simply shown What engineers have always known – A train is never just a train.
The Earth could have a ring, you know – The Moon as well. Perhaps they have already done, But that was then. There would be nothing left to show So who can tell ? Unless, of course, they’ve yet to come, Though who knows when ?
But then, that’s just how gravity Is all around, Its spheres of influence we must Obey, or break – Like how your eyes will grab at me And grind me down – Trapped about your orbit, I am dust Within your wake.
All along the branches, And down amongst the bines We hear the insects chattering The gossip of the vines: Seems someone grassed the hoppers up, And sprung a Springtime storm – They even cussed the locusts low To watch the rumours swarm. The wetas whet their wilting wit, And rub their wings in glee – This really isn’t kosher, The Jerusalems agree. But somewhere in the undergrowth, Striations getting shushed – It simply isn’t cricket For a cricket to be bushed. Lurking there in plain sight Are the lives the cryptids hid – You won’t believe the racket When you hear what Katy did !
Viruses are feeble, really – Just can’t hope to make it In this dangerous Outside – There they are, alone and naked, Lucky to survive a day or two, Before they’re on the slide – There’s nothing they can do, and there’s nowhere they can hide. The trouble is, they’ve got no drive, They’re just too small. Chances are, they’ve died Before we even can decide If they ever were alive at all.
A little soap will crack them open, Ultra vi’let shakes them to their core – Or else they get digested by a passing virivore – (High in protein, high in fat, What germ could ask for more ?) And if not that, Then while they’re out there, waiting to congeal, They cannot reproduce and cannot heal. So keep them on the Outside, that’s the deal – Until they all go splat.
Of all the tax I’ve had to pay For all my working life, I’ve only seen a fraction of its worth – I’ve never used a bridleway, Or been a battered wife, Or dug up ancient hills, or given birth.
I’ve got no kids in need of school, I need no legal aid, And need no shipping forecast out to sea – Not done the Tate in Liverpool, Nor called the fire brigade, Nor wandered through a managed forestry.
I guess I’ve got it breezy, Where the gremlins never struck – But still I always shrug and pay the price. It’s like a tax on easy – But if that’s the price of luck, Then ante-up – I’ll gladly pay her twice…
For teacher, binman, judge and ev’ry nurse, I stump-up for them all from out my purse, And whether Fate shall reimburse, It’s just the cost of our society – So take your bobbies and your squaddies, They’re not mine, they’re ev’rybodies ! Help yourselves, my friends, they’re all on me !
This walk of the cemet’ry was opened just a decade back, With headstones still as sharp as on the day they left the chisel, Looking like they need to soften with a century of drizzle – Alabaster white and granite red and marble black, With hearts, and stars, and open books, and roses marking losses – Many doves and cherubs, fewer angels, hardly any crosses. A dozen diff’rent fonts are used, a hundred quoted lines – And honestly, the sculptor’s task is difficult enough – To craft them sombre, yes, yet touching, dignified, yet full of love. So even here, there’s fashion – we’re so human in our shrines, To leave behind a memory and not forgotten bones. It’s strange to think that this may be a golden age of grieving stones.
A country comet, blazing through The skies of peace and status quo – Your portents wasted to the blue. You shout your name and on you go, With not a trace of plague or coup Or sparks beyond your pretty show.
Damascene tiles, centuries old, Victorian acquired – Beautif’ly painted in blue and gold As fresh as the day they were fired Geometric, dense and hectic, Begging to be admired.
But most of all, of all I love, It is the birds that shine – Each peacock, parrot, lark, and dove, Are delicately fine – With vibrant tints and eyes that glint, Each heavenly divine.
And yet I missed, for all they shone, (Had not the tour-guide said) That ev’ry gorgeous bird thereon Was elegantly dead – A single stroke had simply broke Each neck beneath each head.
Apparently, this trick was rife Throughout the Eastern land – In Islam, images of life Were well-and-truly banned. But corpses were quite de rigueur – And here, the stiffs were grand !
But oh !, those crass colonials, Those patriarchs on tour, Who bought up ceremonials From natives by the score – They couldn’t see the subtlety, Or else chose to ignore…
Without the least misgiving They’d appropriate the style, But paint their birds as living On each modern-ancient tile. Their arrogance had quite by chance Now caused them to defile.
Or maybe they knew, and rejected – Just took what they wanted to keep. And who are we, self-selected, To label them shallow or deep ? Well, I for one, see much more fun In birds who can still go ‘cheep’ !
Damascene tiles, centuries old, Victorian acquired – Marvelled, then improved, all told, As their inspiration fired. And we in turn must gaze and learn, Then change to what’s required.
Rhyming Couplets 