Does the Devil lurk at crossroads ? Doesn’t he have some place to go ? It’s a waypoint, not a terminus. But strum a guitar to the croaking toads And see if the Highway Lord will show – Or, failing that, the midnight bus.
Isn’t this where mediaeval priests Would bury the suicidal souls ? Is that why Satan’s such a fan ? But no undeads tonight, at least, Just jamming with the bats and moles, With not a trace of a bogeyman.
Of all the places to meet with fate, A junction seems a strange address – It sounds like the Devil has lost his way. Whatever, the hour is getting late, With only the hedgehogs to impress – Time, perhaps, to call it a day.
These roads are just two country lanes, That even in daylight are pretty stark – The Devil has better things to do. Now, which way did I come, again ? All these paths look the same in the dark – Where’s the signpost ? Not a clue…
Old Zeus loved to dress as a bull, While Loki dragged-up as a mare – Pan would never be short of wool, And Bast had a head for feline flair.
Such tales from the priests and wassailers, Of shape-shifting changers Who scared dairymaids – For the Devil had all the best tailors, And demons were angels Who loved masquerades.
It used to be said that only the gods (And arthropods) Could metamorphosise – But humans watched, and wanted-in, To shed their skin For a cunning disguise.
And so came Hollywood, Wigs and prosthetics, And cosmetics enough to make Jezebel blush. Till even the fay never had it so good, And the witches spurned wands for our pencil and brush.
So we’re gloriously gothic and archly absurd, We’re casting a glamour To stammer the Word. And whether we’re devil or psycho or clown, We raise-up the dead for a night on the town.
And the gods all smile at how far we’ve run, As they don a new style to join in the fun.
For all they may claim that religious festivals of the dead are deeply serious and purely about honouring souls and lost relatives, or about warding-off dangerous evil spirits, never underestimate the subconscious human desire to dress-up and have a party.
Breathe deep, my dear, Fill your lungs With the vapour of the day – The hint of frost That pricks your throat, The faint tang of decay. Breathe, A little too rapidly – In with a stutter, Out with a rasp. Breathe deep, my dear, Breathe me in – The better to scream, The better to gasp. Or try to hold me in, Until your chest must heave Its own desire – For sooner, my dear, Or later, You know you must Expire.
Hey Jude, have you heard, There was once a piano That achieved far more than you and I ever shall ever. It’s a little bit funny, if that’s the word, How much this piano Brought more of us smiles than all of us manage together. But the rumour mill will grind on, come what may – What can I say ? It had a busy day today.
Sure, it’s all just circumstance, Such a perfect day, Such a god-awful small affair. We’ve fallen for the neat romance Just because it’s true, But ought we disbelieve it, if we dare ?
With a hub-cap diamond-star halo, And with dynamite with a laser beam, And how can we ever compete with such a daydream ? Let it go. But if living is without you, Then you think the song is about you – But the thing is, this isn’t your show. Coincidences leave a daunting trail, But in the end, they have no horns and they have no tail.
We’re committing the crime of the century, otherwise, Holding-up standards we never can realise, What reasons do we need to be told ? So best to shrug and cheer up, dude. It’s just a piano that rocked and rolled – Don’t make it bad, hey, Jude.
In Church – A Composing Sermon by another anon, alas
Their Ears are Dull of Hearing
“And these are the garments that you shall craft – A breastplate, an ephod, and broideried coat, A mitre, and girdle of curious draft.” And thus it was written, for thus they wrote.
“And you shall take gold, and purple, and blue, And scarlet, and fine-twined linen and thread, With much cunning work, and onyx stones two.” And thus it was written, for thus they said.
“These are the garments most holy you’ll make For priests, that they may minister me In glory and beauty, and for my sake.” And thus it was written, eternally.
Plans and measurements, timber and twill – The Ark, the Altar, the Tabernacle. Why do we need to remember these still ? Haven’t we more pressing matters to tackle ?
“Ham begat Put begat Cush begat Nimrod, And Lotan, and Shobal, and duke Zibeon, And Shem begat Elam and Aram and Lud…” And thus it was written, and on, and on.
“Seethe not the kid in the milk of his mother, Now mine is the firstling from out of the womb, And thou shalt not make of a slave of another… No, let’s drop that last one – we’ve run out of room…”
You think you’re it – You think your charm enthrals, You think you’re sharply dressed, All cool unstressed – But you ain’t to me. You think you’re fit – You think you’ve got the balls, You think you’ve got the looks, And the baited hooks – But you ain’t got me.
You’re ev’rything masculine, powerful, and brutish, Ev’rything blandly manly and disputish – What you are is ev’rything wrong with the world, Ev’rything murky with stealth. You’re silent and strong and rigid and mutish, You’re clumsy and loud and blunt and uncutish. What I need is somebody saving the world, By helping me to save it myself.
Is it too much to hope ? Am I too naive and sucked-in ? Can’t anybody save this world from self-destructing ?, When not all of this world can be reached along the ducting, Or humbled with instruction, Or conquered with seduction – We need a man who’s handy, not a grope. And don’t think me too incessant If I find the world more pleasant When the other half is present, and can cope. Is it really, really too much that I hope ?
You got the moves, And you got the toys – Karate and kendo, And endless innuendo – But you ain’t got me. Cos all it proves Is you’re naught but noise – You’ve got no clout Once your bang’s gone out – You are so not me !
You’re ev’rything spying, lying, and deceitful, Ev’rything crooked and counterfeit and cheatful – What you are is ev’rything wrong with the world, Ev’rything cocked and askew. You’re ev’rything uncool and tepid and debacle, Ev’rything Oxbridge and Tory patriarchal – What I need is somebody saving the world – Saving from someone like you.
Is it too much to ask ? Am I being too demanding ? Won’t anybody save this world by understanding ?, When not all of this world is corrupt and underhanding, Or divvied-up and branded, Because of what the Man did, As if it’s only men perform each task… So I trust it’s not too queeny To insist you do not deem me Just a bird in a bikini or a basque. Is it really, really too much that I ask ?
I need a geek – Someone who ain’t so goddam macho, Someone who ain’t so suave and chatshow, Someone who doesn’t grasp and snatch so, Someone who’s gentle without being meek. Someone who can’t use force without balking, Someone who knows his Kant from his Hawking, Someone to save this world by just talking – Someone to be my freak.
It’s the orders of service that stick in my memory – Always the same, just the name and the photo would change. Funeral dues for my far-distant family, Seconds and greats twice-removed, from the sticks or the Grange.
The organ would parp but the bells never tolled, And the bunches of flowers were lilies or roses or daffodils. The pews were so hard and the stones were so cold, As, forcibly suited and combed, I was begged to sit still.
The Lord Is My Shepherd, The Old Rugged Cross, The same old hymns, in the same old badly-sung. The same “so sorry for your loss” And same “they had a good life/died too young”.
And even the eulogies followed a formula, Strangers with unrehearsed mumblings delivered too fast – The reminiscences couldn’t be warmer, But too late to tell me now, their moment has passed.
Then it’s the Lord’s Prayer, and into the home straight With one final blast of All Things Bright & Beautiful – Which always struck me as having the wrong weight, Far too happy – though dirged into something more suitable.
But as I grow older, the deaths have grown closer, And it falls to me for arrangements and guests to be planned – When I’ve no time for grief, yet I need to bring closure, I remember those orders of service, and I understand…
Bit of a cheat, but the second line in the penultimate verse scans okay if the emphasis is placed on the ‘Things’.
The Roman snail was bred for the eating, Bred by the Romans on gastropod farms – Bred to be fatter and bred to be sweeter, Bred for behaviour and oozing with charms ! Red shells and blue shells, thoroughly adaptable, With endless potential curled-up inside – Many shapes of eye-stalk, fully retractable, And you should see how speedily these beauties can glide !
“You join us at the Coliseum, bursting to capacity, For the Trophy Mille Denarii – ave, sports fans, and well met – And they’re off ! Down the first straight, led by Number Three, While Number Thirteen stalls, and retracts into his helmet. Hard into the corner at a tenth-a-mile an hour, And slamming on the brakes – and out goes Number Ten ! Spinning in slow motion as she gives it too much power, And slams into the backside of her team-mate, yet agen ! So the Formula Unum poll position’s passed to Seventeen – While her rival Number Twenty-Two has oozed into the pits, To lubricate his tired foot, while they give his conch a sheen, With a quick refuel of lettuce, and he’s back into the blitz ! Now shell-to-shell on the final lap come slithering the leaders, Stretching their antennas out to take the chequered flag. But competition never ends for Golden Helix breeders, When looking for an offspring with a slightly better drag.”
Bloody Tories, bastard bankers, Bleeding hearts and work-shy snowflakes Brigadiers and Rule Britannia, Chavs and avocado-fakes. I’ve been there, blaming them for “it’s unfair”, This seething, faceless mass. It’s all too easy, all too “they don’t care”, Just blame the other class. But have we ever once attempted, Tried to understand just why we sharply disagree ? Before our prejudice pre-empted, Viewing them as ‘hippies’ or as ‘bourgeoisie’. But could it still have worked, Before they’re sneered-at, sussed and tagged ? Before our knees have jerked, Our jibes have jeered, our throats have gagged ? Can we treat our enemies As the friends and fam’lies that they are, And disagree more civilly Before we take our tongues too far ? We should us all be traitors to our tribes, Refuse the dogma, learn to reach across the aisle – The jeers are threats, the cheers are bribes, But we must greet them both with just a smile. And as for those who take things further, On their side, and also ours, We need to try to tame their fervour, Try to swap their vitriol for flowers. Don’t banish them, don’t monster them, Don’t fantasise of shooting them – For they are people – angry, human people – Don’t be brutal, don’t be phlegm. We need to talk them down, not taunt them over, Lend a hand, not give a shove. As once we lose humanity, there’s no way to recover, For even Reds and Fascists need our love.
Whenever I hear people blame How surnames get above their station, Moving up to the front of the name, In a silly fads and trendy game, Calling kids Odell or Mason, Grabbing at that Moon Unit fame That should belong to Jane and Jason – I love to contradict their claims By pointing out it’s nothing new for names – So Franklin, Brooke, and Harrison, Meet Stanley, Joyce, and Allison, Who opened up the door through which you came. But then, there’s many a fam’ly brand Whose use ain’t so contrived or underhand – For they themselves derived from the font-side, Taking a personal name, and riffing free, Which now completes its jaunty ride By cycling back as Price or Tiffany, With not a shred of shame. For labels, monikers and nicks, Are simply anything that sticks – And who wants kids to all be called the same ?
It’s intersting to consider how the four different types of surname get reappropriated: Patronymic-names (f’instance Anderson, McKenzie, Fitzpatrick) are obvious candidates, being already based on a forename. Location-names (like Milton, Beverley, Beckett) would be grabbed if they were thought to sound nice, much like India and Vienna would be later, though now with an added dash of exotic. Nickname-names (say Wiley, Swift, Armstrong) are slower to be taken up, but not unheard-of. Occupation-names (such as Parker, Smith, Marshall) are the most surname-sounding, and their recent large-scale take-up could well come to define this century, just as the Victorians are associated with naming their daughters after flowers and gemstones.
By the way…if Tinker Dill was a character in Lovejoy, Taylor Dayne was an 80s pop star, Soulja Boy is a rapper…then I guess it’s only a matter of time before we can say Hello Sailor…
(And to all you subjunctive-lovers out there, I stand by the two ‘was’-es above, as what it is saying is “IF…given that Character A was in Show B, THEN…”, meaning that the ‘was’ is not part of the conditional clause.)
Rhyming Couplets 