Pop tunes reckon that they haven’t got long, So they splash their chorus in the first few bars – They’re terrified of the fingers that skip, They’ve got no time to take a trip. The ear-economy for any song Must reach us in shops and lobbies and cars – There’s no slow build-up any more, Just one-two-three, then four-to-the-floor.
Ballet, op’ra and poetry – Loved by luvvies and the BBC But otherwise ignored by all and quite right too. Up their own arses, these brown-nose arts Are permanent’ly trapped in a bubble of farts Just like the upper-chattering classes talking poo. Please, oh please, let me never be trendy, Keep me away from the cognoscenti, Shovelling tax-pounds into their bottomless troughs. I’ll take my chance with the free-will market Than crawling on my belly on a critic’s carpet – They may be lefties, but trust me – they’re just a bunch of toffs.
So you say you don’t like my fill-in-the-blank, Well okay grandad, off you trot, So you think my taste is ‘square’ and ‘rank’, Well God bless you and off you trot, And love what you love and leave what you don’t, And tell what you will and spare what you won’t, But if you can’t wait to gossip what you hate, Well groovy, daddy-o, off you trot, Don’t let me stop you, but hold on there, Just let me work out how much I care While I crank my fav’rit song upto ten – WHAT’S THAT ? SAY WHAT ? COME AGEN ? You were prob’ly calling it a ‘din’ and ‘rot’ Cos these days, whinging’s all you got – So I guess you don’t like the whole ‘darn’ lot, But don’t worry, geezer, off you trot.
Street, white, hand, song – No rhymes there, best move along. Roots, come, page, near – Shan’t be lurking long ’round here. Found, sharp, luck, role – Nothing there to lurch my soul. Pen, sighed, when, tide – Go on then, I’ll take a ride.
Poets: we’re never too subtle or shy – We’re big on the drama, on even the small days. The all-knowing pen of the all-seeing I, In the first-person first, and last, and always. With a couchful of angst and a sleeveful of heart, We splinter all meaning, we trample all art – For we are the masters of words, And are well-worth the fuss. Depend upon it, from old boy to upstart – For all of our sonnets to lovers and birds, Our verses are all about us.
How do we know How we know what we know ?, When we haven’t a clue How we do what we do ? And how do we think When we think in a blink ? In a faster-than-short, We have caught us a thought. They hustle and tout And they wheedle and shout, Like rumours and tracts That have somehow crept out – Till we realise there’s mountains of facts That we swear we weren’t taught.
I do not know How I know what I know, But I know that they flow As they come and they go. Cos there’s stuff I’ve forgot – Don’t know what, but a lot – And there’s thoughts that will sow, Lying low till they grow, And they scatter and spread Through my depths of my head As factoids and fluff That take root and embed. Till I realise there’s jungles of stuff That I happen to know.