Stripped-down and unplugged, Going back-to-basics – These are words that fill my ears with dread. Guitars strummed and harps tugged, Waxed and polished double basses, Drummers told to stay at home instead.
I don’t want your simple sound, I want music complicated I want synths that growl and pound, Electrified, not automated. Full of intricate design, Not simply autotuned and gated – I want music of its time, Not scared of being dated.
Hashed out and doped up, Family-friendly faceless, Perfect songs for sending off the dead. Slowed-down and moped-up, Going back to basics – These are words this fill my soul with lead.
People love to grumble over supermarket bread – “It isn’t really fresh, you know” I’ve often heard it said, “It’s made in batch in Swindon and then frozen” they explain, “So all they do in bakeries is heat it up again.” Croissant, bap, or pumpernickel, Loaf-lovers sure are fickle – Kneeded crumpets, seeded squabblers, Talking sourdough and cobblers.
You know, that doesn’t bother me, as long as they still taste – And oh!, the smell of toasted carbs will never go to waste. But why are still-warm loaves just plonked on open racks for show In the air-conditioned hell that sucks all moisture from the dough ? Cardboard slices, leaden grain, With all self-raising turned to plain. Golden crust and pain-au-choc, As dry as dust and hard as rock.
My neighbour disliked her cherry laurel And asked to borrow my saw. She offered me all the wood for my fire In exchange for my muscle and jaw. And so we chopped and chatted all morning On what we joked was her ‘ranch’. She called it an invasive species As we tackled its largest branch – She certainly didn’t remember planting the thing, So out it went (Though she waited till all its blossom had dropped Which had lasted all through lent.) I’ve heard when burned it smells of cherries, But we scented almonds that day – She said, well that’s the cyanide, Remember, this laurel’s no bay. We made fair work of its lily-white wood Till we left its stump for bare, But we still got a slight furriness in our mouths, Despite our gloves and care. I offered her a seat by my fireside Watching her tree disappear, But she said I needed to season it first, So call her up in a year.
Once a time, the clocks would tick, Like any decent metaphor – By slicing up the passing time, And tolling out their hourly chime. Pocket watches, chirping quick, Longcase , slow and sure, Tick-tock, clip-clop, out they’d trot, When seconds were a noisy lot. Yet now, they’re silent and they’re slick, Just oozing moments from their store – But still they serve to spread the word How time is slipping past, unheard.
When songs go on too long, When six minutes should be three – Well, that’s when they change key. Your skeleton-solution, Revolution-by-indentikit – It doesn’t pick the lock, but bludgeon it. Nothing says you’ve run out of ideas Like modulation, Crunch-changing gears by slurring-up the speed – Won’t you spare my tears From your pinched-throat oration, Your goodness-me vibration to make my ears bleed ? I wish it were an octave that you’d shifted, Or used harmonies, And not just drifted-up a third For yet one more reprise. And please, don’t start ad-libbing Like a gibbering MC – There’s a reason why they call this bullshit ‘scat’. Your climax won’t excite me By just singing out of key – The sparkle in your tonic has gone flat.
1. At least with patrons David and Patrick, They visited the lands which went on to claim them – But George and Andrew are strangers to Albion, (We had local talent, but no-one can name them).
I bet they never heard of us, we’re just some hicks from out the sticks – They’re busy being famous, they won’t return our call. To patronising saints, we’re just fanboys with a crucifix – Mini-me Man-U supporters, posters on the wall.
2. But then, what does it matter, we say ? Especially for England, Especially on George’s Day. The red and the white are only for fascists – The Guardian insists, okay ? And the bleeding hearts will wail – That the flag is now the province of the Mail. People, haven’t you heard That patriotism is a very dirty word ? The only time, the only time That national pride can still be shown Is during the World Cup alone. And when they lose, that very day, The flags must all be put away And never more be flown.
3. Ah, perhaps I’m being too hard, But still the Left can’t lose the twinge To see their homeland as only bland and scarred. They never can relax their guard, Or shake the shame and cultural cringe – They love the stranger, hate their own back yard. And yes, I know the old old stories – Slaves and Empire, toffs and Tories – Nobody’s disputing – But still there’s Newton, Attlee, and the Bard ! So all the more the need, I say, To set aside a National Day ! Forget old Georgie – let’s be cannier, Make ourselves a Saint Britannia – She can be our national birthday card !
I love the Union Jack, Far more than any church or crown – I love the way the patriots all wag. I love it on a tea-towel, I love to wear it as a gown, Or on my underwear and pocket-rag.
I love the Union Jack, I love to see the whites fade brown, I love to see it limply droop and sag. I love to snub the Welsh as well, I love to fly it upside-down, And call the flag a Jack and not a Flag.
Ramshorn snails with ammonite shells, A spiral without a hint of a helix, They’re more like a wheel than a pyramid, I feel, All adding variety into the mix. Some look drunken with sideways shells, Half flat-on-their-backs and half falling-off Like a coil of rope – but they seem to cope, And it’s still a home, and we shouldn’t scoff.
And honestly, they’re shaped much more like a ramshorn Than any ram’s horn, which is more like a corkscrew – Though any shepherd could tell you with scorn That some horns’ spirals leave gaps you could walk through. Unlike the snails, those geometric purists – And yet they’re just tourists in the twist of fate – They barely take a turn and let the helter-skelter churn, Yet rams’ horns grow ev’ry which-way but straight.
But I know what you’re thinking: what about the hermit crabs ? What of it will spring-loaded scavengers make ? Will they recycle these torus-shaped slabs, Or are they afraid that their body-skew will break ? Is such shelly symmetry unnecessary gimmickry ? Or circular efficiency for streamlining’s sake ? Much better suited than the filigreed or fluted, Or the messy-convoluted coilings of a snake.
Ramshorn snails with ammonite shells, So ambidextrous in their twisting – Easy gliders or top-heavy sliders ? Some are upright, and others are listing. If snails have ramshorns then rams have crownhorns, The biggest ones worn by the king of the dales – And even when shorn, it becomes a shepherd’s cornet To warn us of the wolves or the thieves or the snails.
A kingfisher glints like a galaxy, We only see where he used to be – A flash of white, a swirl of red, But when we look again, he’s fled. When searching with a lens, or two, He’s there, he’s gone, a cloud of blue – We scan the verge where the sparkles play, As he dances in and out of the Milky Way.
All great Artists have a vice, But I’m a tepid type – I try to keep my manners nice And give no cause for hype. I’ll never be a rabble-rousing rebel, Nor a cad, Just knocking back the trebles On my way to going mad, With my pockets full of pebbles And a need for worship bad… I’m much more pipe-and-slippers (less the pipe). I guess I am a Larkin or an Eliot at heart Than a Dylan or a Kingsley with a passion full of art – I mean, I have a mongrel and a mortgage for a start ! And I always found Romantics over-ripe. I guess I’m not an Artist-capital-A, But that’s okay. (And it really ain’t my mode, that way.) I’m hardly a conspiracist, eccentric and uncouth, I’m not a Goth or horny toad, or tender, tortured youth, Or rainbow-dressed consumptive who is dying for some Truth – That’s just a load of self-obsessing tripe !
Rhyming Couplets 