“Boston in Lincolnshire is noted for having a high percentage of EU immigrants.”
– Evening Daily
Now clear the floor and start the band, And take your partners by the hand – So step on up and get on down, Just like us folks in Boston Town. Now dance ’em round and dance ’em square, There’s dancers here from ev’rywhere ! From Norse and Hansa, French and Yanks – Come join the dance and swell the ranks.
And one-two-three-four, Best start again – here come some more.
For centuries we’ve put to sea And brought the world into our quay: Willem, Hodel, Rémi, Morta – Boston sons and Boston daughters. See the out-of-towners clump Upon the Wash, beneath the Stump, Enough to fill the Gliderdrome – So welcome, strangers, welcome home !
And four-three-two-one, But don’t stop now, the dance ain’t done !
There’s no need to be lonely ones, For we are all Bostonians ! Szymon, Crina, Miloš, Maja, Suppers ready by the fire. Come on in and catch the rhythm, Up the Haven, down the Witham. Latvia to Greece to Spain, From Liquorponds to Dolphin Lane.
And one-two-three-four, We’ve danced a thousand years or more.
Now take your partners by the hand, And welcome to the Promised Land – Petru, Zosia, Wojciech, Rūta: Bear the Pilgrims of the future. Stepping strange, but no concern, It’s nothing that we can’t soon learn – The dance is long and folks must flow, As dancers come and dancers go.
And four-three-two-one, A thousand more this dance will run.
Larry, the incumbent. I wonder what his collar tag says ?
Chief Mousers to the Cabinet Office
Since days of Wolsey, there we’ve been, Lurking beneath the throne – The éminence grise, or tabby, or brown, The whiskered presence behind the crown. Each light-footed tom and dagger-clawed queen Has worked their paws to the bone, Keeping our ministers free from vermin, Keeping the rodents from nesting in ermine.
For we are civil servants too, Patrolling halls of power – Wherever the traitors skulk and plot, We’re here to pounce upon the lot. For mouse or magpie, rat or shrew, We’ll make those riff-raff cower ! While members jeer and speakers spout, We’ll keep the rebel squeakers out.
1. Reckfull in my actions, I shall pinge you well alone – My manners may be peccable, but ruthfully they’ve grown. I’ve mantled them from bootsome parts of like and parate form – Deceitless in intention, with an ert and toothfulgorm.
2. I bunk your valid theory, which has gusted my good taste, The nocent may be nocuous, but we are praved and based. My spirit may be delable, my courage may be trepid, But let my mind combobulate, and once more I am crepit.
3. Feeling good and gruntled, I was ruly in my care, And was looking couth and gainly with my kempt and shevelled hair – “Be mayed by hapfull fortune, and chelant with passion’s thrill – Be feckfull, wieldy and toward, with ept and bashless skill.”
Pointless Deaths On ev’ryday, there’s somebody, Who dies in quiet tragedy, Who dies because biology Cannot continue hence – From choking on an apple pip, Or falling from a clumsy trip, To organs one day losing grip, And none of it makes sense.
A fatal fallen power line, Drowning in the Serpentine, Little lumps we thought benign, We never even met. Neckties wrenched to stranglehold, Coming over sweating cold, Salmon eaten just too old, And that is all we get.
Little cuts which never heal, Brakes that have a perished seal, Kidney stones as hard as steel, Gone in a moment’s flick. Poisoned by a buttercup, Bitten by a friendly pup, Simply never waking up, We die too young, too quick.
Paralysed by peanut shock, Shaking loose a hornet flock, Falling golf-balls hard as rock, So frail is life of man. Infants dead before their birth, Here today then gone to earth, And all our deaths are ever worth, Is showing there’s no plan.
I wonder, does it start with hoofbeats, Or the rush of flapping wings ? The hiss of gas ? A perfect fifth ? Or pistons, switches, cogs and springs ? That moment when the muse comes calling Bringing insight in her wake – She gifts her targets sparks and notions, Just to see what they will make.
And some folks are raptured, and some folks are seizured, And some folks will cherish and others will fear it – And I can but look on and ponder their wonder And try not to envy their genius spirit. And if I can’t join in their synching, Can’t speak in their tongues, or can’t waltz in their dance, At least I can urge them to write down their thinking, And not to leave mem’ry to chance –
So scurry and scramble to get the sprites pinned, That jingle or joke or invention or gen – For how many mousetraps are lost to the wind, When somebody spoke or for the want of a pen ?
I’ve long since stopped expecting the tap, Or the draught from angels’ wings I’ll never be a chosen one Who gets to feel such precious things For I am nothing transcendental – Too much static on the line. I’m not complaining – so it goes, I guess we can’t all be divine.
So I have to prod it, and I have I to wring it, And I have to plead with my brain for a vision – For I can but whittle upon some idea, And patiently bring it, I hope, to fruition. But keep chasing down on that inkling, And tinker about in the back of the mind – And most of all, keep turning up at the thinking – Ah well – back to the grind.
Your whispers and trances may get your thoughts firing, But mine just meander and dawdle and wend. My only damn flashes are sparks in my wiring – But maybe my work is as good in the end ?
It’s never the way that they claim it, this love, In their stories and movies and songs – It’s never so epic or urgent or raw, It’s never so moving or brimming with awe. It’s never the way that it should be, this love, And we’re all of us doing it wrong – They sold us the brand and we snapped up the dream, We’re dazzled by hope when there’s barely a gleam. And if we ain’t got it, It’s too late to spot it, Cos surely we should’ve exulted by now. Whatever the weather, To not be together Is more than a lover could ever allow. So still we keep wishing, And still we keep sighing, And still we keep fishing, And swooning, and crying And even the faithful still feel the desire – We’re all of us waiting for Cupid to fire.
It’s never the way that we planned it, this love, In our minds and our hearts and our schemes – It’s never so civil or timely or neat, It’s never so gentle or syrupy sweet. It’s never the way that we practised, this love, With our patter and perfumes and creams – It comes on in shivers and rashes and bursts, It comes on in hungers and gorges and thirsts. And if we don’t get it, They’ll make us regret it – We’ve failed to be human and living our fill. We’re solo and only – The crime of the lonely, That’s punished by keeping us lonelier still. But on we keep hoping, And on we keep dreaming, And on we keep moping, And recklessly teeming – And even the loveless are likewise alike, We’re all of us sure that the lightning will strike.
Purple and mauve And claret and plum, Lavender, lilac and carpenter’s thumb, Indigo, violet, ultramarine, Fuchsia, magenta and burgundy-bean. Aubergine, sprouting and blueberry juice – Much redder than cyan and bluer than puce.
The red and the blue, And the blue and the red, And the mix of the two On the wall or the thread. Emperors, sportsmen and hippies have shown That neither these primes is enough on its own. It’s cool and it’s passionate, hip and genteel – Much bluer than scarlet and redder than steel.
We all grew up with those slow, slow songs That would start so low and so far. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, With piano or strumming guitar. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, And they’d start so low and alone – But we waited for strings and we waited for drums That the first verse would only postpone.
We all grew up with those slow, slow songs That would start so low, but they’d build. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, Be it yearned or lost or fulfilled. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, And they’d always start so low. But we knew there were strings and we knew there were drums, All to come as the slow songs grow.
We were so young, too young to know, That that’s not the way that our love must go. We should have been so angry, shrieking out with rage – Instead of slowly dancing, or shrieking at the stage.
We all grew up with those slow, slow songs That would slowly grow as they’d build. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, Be it spent or hungry or willed. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, And they’d always build so good. Cos we knew there were drums, and we knew there were strings – And the strings entered here, as they should.
We were so young, too young to know, That that’s not the way ev’ry time would flow. But DJs gave us no-one else to lead us by their lights, So who else could we turn to through our adolescent nights ?
So we all sang along, sang along – Cos who wouldn’t want to feel like they belong ? So we sang and we sang, and still we got it wrong, So we thought we had to listen even harder to the song.
We all grew up with those slow, slow songs That didn’t stay low, cos they’d build – And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, Be it craved or broken or thrilled. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, And they didn’t stay low for long – Cos we knew there were strings and we knew there were drums, And we knew that the climax was strong.
We were so young, too young to know, That that’s not the way when you start off low, But that’s what we thought, cos that’s what they’d tell: That it builds and it builds till it surges in a swell.
So we all sang along, sang along – Cos who wouldn’t want to sing out with the throng ? So we sang and we sang, and still we got it wrong, Even though we did it all like they did it in the song.
But there must be other songs we can play – There must be other songs where it doesn’t go this way. But if we trust the ballads, then will the answers come ? Or will our eyes be closed as we’re swaying to the drum ?, That starts its beating here. Cos we may come and go, but the ballads persevere.
By the time we hit the middle-eight, We maybe should have learned As our lighters sway, but always late: Behind the beat, with fingers burned. By the time the raw falsettos flood From songs that start so low, Our doubts are drowned in pulsing blood. I guess it’s time to play the solo.
We were so young, too young to know, That that’s not the way that the songs should go. They should sometimes start fast, and should sometimes never build, And should sometimes anticlimax or suddenly be killed.
But we all sang along, sang along – Cos who wouldn’t want for their love to build so strong ? So we sang and we sang, even though we knew it’s wrong, And still it never played out like it plays out in the song.
But there must be other songs we can play – There must be other songs where it doesn’t go this way. There must be other songs where our love strangely comes – So unclose your eyes and ungate your drums, And let them ring out clear ! For the ballad is done, but we all still are here.
We all grew up with those slow, slow songs That would end so high, but they’d fade. And they ev’ry damn one were all about love, Till the coda would close the parade.
The best thing about her ? Whenever she speaks The tip of her sweet nose will flex up and down. But only the button, you should understand – The subtlest of bounces beyond her command. Crowning her philtrum and charming her cheeks, Her pogo-ing hooter is hitting the town. Her bobbing proboscis is truly quite stellar – But if she don’t realise, I ain’t gonna tell her ! You have to be close up to see it in action, And more when she smiles and less when she frowns. A wonderf’ly random and quirky attraction – Who says the best noses are sported by clowns ?
Rhyming Couplets 