Impressionist painters in poverty On canvasses lacking in threads, Glamorous silent-screen starlets, And bereted and bearded reds, Scientists seeking-out secrets, And dare-devils pushing their luck – They died too soon and died too young, When fortunes came unstuck. In days before the drugs did for, Disease was the way to go – Consumption, of course – or else it’s the pox – Or the needs of the narrative flow. Heroines, gothic or chivalrous, In novels antique or sublime – They’re dying too young from the loin or the lung, Yet they’re dying precisely on time.
Rock and roll, all voters ! Staunch and floaters, poor and wealthy – To the fuss-and-tussle hustings jamboree ! Bring the kids and bring the dogs, Let’s throng with hacks from press and blogs To jeer the speeches, snap the selfies, Make them promise jam for tea – Then talk with wonks and rebel Scots, And mix with toffs and flat-capped Trots. Let’s join the jostle and bus the bustle, And get on down to the hustings hustle.
But it’s never like that these days. Our candidates are scrambled through A mesh of endless screens, That changes all the red to blue And filters out the golds and greens Till all that’s left are greys. They rarely need to meet the public, Rarely let us have our say – There’s just too many unelected journos in the way !
No wonder disillusionment is growing – But no ! That’s what they want of us ! We mustn’t be intimidated by the charging battle-bus. Don’t be ashamed of floating or don’t-knowing, Thoughtful contemplation never was a crime – Just make sure that you make it to the booth on time ! For I don’t care who gets your vote, As long as someone gets your vote – Be they protest, status quo, or loony-fringers. Don’t buy their apathetic spin, Or else we let the cynics win – A can’t-be-arsed electorate of impotents and whingers.
For ours is the power, ours the law, My fellow voters ! We aren’t just humble peasants stood in awe Before our lords – We’re citizens – not subjects, Nor statistics, blips or quotas – We’re individual voters, And not meek amorphous hordes. We’re millions of voices making millions of choices, With our pencils mightier than any swords.
So roll up, you voters ! Shake a leg ! It’s time to give a damn ! With me ! Let’s make the bloody buggers beg – Let’s rock this hustings jamboree !
I make the sun rise. I control fate. To me the credit for all that is great. Know that my worth is a thousand of you, And yet I descended to share what I knew. This world I remade in my image agleam, From antediluvian law and regime – And now ev’ry crisis since my rise to rule, Is legacy still of that tenancy cruel. But I have delivered unto you, my flock, For I’m your All-Knowing, Infallible rock. And I have the Power, the Knowledge, the Plan Of fiscal and social beyond wit of man. Yet do not presume to inquiry my ways, Don’t ponder my motives, don’t question who pays. Just pray for my blessing, and so bring to pass A life for the better in safe Middle-Class.
But they…they…
They make it rainy. They bring you down. They are the Demons who covet my crown. For their ev’ry plan is most evil and wicked – They take all your hopes and your dreams and they stick it And quash your beliefs as they freight them with dread, Then charm you to dream of their visions instead. They promise you ev’rything better their way At just half the price that you currently pay. And, yes, it is true, how their glamours beguile, With pretty predictions and invectious bile – They smear my almighty with heretic slander, With scandal and intrigue and base propaganda. But since I am perfect, we must remain strong – They cannot be right, for I cannot be wrong. For I am your god, your elected divine – It’s never my fault when the sun doesn’t shine.
Charon Carries Souls across the River Styx by Alexander Litovchenko
The Charon Line
We lined-up on the shore, All so silently and patient, As we waited for the ferryman to come. The river was so calm, And the air so deathly still, And the souls were so sepulchral and so glum.
The sky above was black, With no moon or stars upon it, And yet light there was, from unseen candle wicks. The ripples barely washed On the river we all knew we knew: Some say the Acheron, and some the Styx.
The sand beneath our sandals Was a ghostly grey, and barren, And was bunched up by the groynes that strutted out. No birds were seen there wading, And no crabs were on the scuttle, And no barnacles or sedges, flies or trout.
Yet offering a focus Was a short and ancient jetty – Like a road to nowhere but the endless sea. And here it was we waited, With no sense of how long waiting, For we hadn’t any other place to be.
Then through the unseen nothing Came the faintest splash and motion, As a distant dory drifted into view – And standing at its stern Was the sternest man left standing, As he worked his ten-foot ore into the blue.
With a slow and practices action Of his stroke, recover, stroke, So his rust-red ferry glided to the shore With not a punt too many, He was docked upon the jetty, As he paintered-up and shoulder-slung his oar.
Bearded and burly With the bearing of a bull, Looking old as both the river and the boat. A loincloth and a cloak Were his only grubby garments, With his chest and thighs as hairy as a goat.
He stood upon the planks And he held his other hand out, Which we knew was for the taking of the fare. We reached into our mouths, And we felt beneath our tongues, And withdrew the coin deposited in there.
Some could find no obol And they feared they should be stranded, And they clutched their worried forehead in dismay But lo !, they found two pennies Had been placed upon their eyelids And they sighed with some relief that they could pay.
The boatman took the money Which he dropped into a leather pouch – He never looked, but fingers felt the coins – He knew which ones weren’t obols, And he tossed them in the river, And their owners likewise shoved against the groynes.
In life, we might have wondered Where he ever got to spend it – But now that was no concern of ours at all. Instead, we simply paid him In our final ever payment, And were left withouot a bead in wherewithal.
Those who proffered pennies Earned a scowl and muttered whinges On tradition, change, and numpties who know best. But rules are rules, and tolls are tolls – He pocketed the coppers both, Then waved them on his barge just like the rest.
He only took a dozen, As we sat on barest boards, While he stood upon the till and plumbed his oar. And those who couldn’t pay him Were the stranded on the strand, Who must wander through the wasteland evermore.
And what was waiting for us On that other, distant, shrouded bank ? We never tell, and you shall never know – At least, until the day you die And make the trip yourself – Unless, of course, you’ve somewhere else to go ?
View of a Hustings in Covent Garden by James Gillray
The Hustings Shuffle
Promises promised, but not to be kept – They know it, we know it, and they know we know – But it must be this way – it is what we expect.
Their promises come and their promises go – We want to believe but we try to resist, And say to ourselves that it’s only a show.
Their policies spin and their arguments twist – We’re warned of the dangers their rivals equate – Then hands must be shaken and babies be kissed.
We try to engage and we try to debate, And try to remember it’s us who’s the boss, Just looking for servants to tend to the state.
They beam out the smiles that they sharpen with floss, They pose for our photos and laugh at our jokes, And feel for our anger and pity our loss.
They tell us and tell us they’re average folks From average backgrounds with average smarts, Who love to get down with us ordin’ry blokes.
Beware their seductions, their flattering arts That promise the world if our trust they may borrow – We give up our votes and they crush our green hearts.
They leave us defiled and they show us no sorrow, They love us today and they jilt us tomorrow.
They seem to be lasting for longer each year, So long past September and into December – For even in frost and in sleet, they appear – Still shining in bloom on the thermal frontier.
And I have seen violets outlast their season, And snowdrops and hellebores turning up early doors. I wonder if climate change offers a reason ?, For something is urging these flowers and trees on.
The branches are bare, but the apples still mellow – We’ve bred them so hardy, it just makes them tardy. Surprises of colour make strange bedding-fellows, With the roses still red as the crocus bursts yellow.
I’ve always found the habit of naming flowers after the saints on whose feast day they bloom to be a shaky tradition in Europe, when one considers our pot-luck temperate maritime climate. Will there be an overnight host of golden St John’s wort on the 24th of June every year ? With our climate, the closest you can come is within a month. And of course, Easter brings its own complications.
The lights going on and off…and on…and off……and on………and off………
Turner Churners
The critics will faun it, the Mail just loathes – The public’s not stupid, it’s in on the deal – We’ve always known it’s the emperor’s clothes, It’s only the artists who think it’s for real. And all’s just performance-ing art in the end, These artists we hate yet adore: That pompously-arrogant, smugly-camp blend – Such wonderful caricature !
I wish I could urge you to vote with your hearts, But alas, it’s all just a game – It forces us each to the cynical arts Of tactical voting and blame. Supposing, just for the day, We lost our hate, we lost our fear ? Then, no matter who won, I say The revolution would be here. But until, don’t give them an inch – Let’s make them guess and sweat and pinch, And keep your ballot confidential, Share it only with the pencil. No rosettes and no balloons – And lie, lie, lie to the pollsters’ goons.
Mary, Mary, Little fairy, Like those Grecian girls of old: The bull and swan have entered in, The golden rain has soaked your skin, So what’s inside, Mary Bride, And were you told ? Like the girls and the Nephelim did when they kiss In the book of the partheno-Genesis, So a tale this big is too big to disbelieve, And the giants in this world are conceived By women who are bold.
Mary, Mary, Extr’ordinary How does your foetus grow on its own ? Maybe a haploid, unfertilised seed, That’s only half a human, indeed ! So are you sure, Mary Pure, Just what you’ve grown ? But it has been shown in the lizard and the aphid, And a miracle Messiah has been prophesised since David, In a tale so big it’s too big to be denied – So the drag-king of the Jews must be supplied Through your daughter – through your clone.
Rhyming Couplets 