The Boat is Past its Best

 

These are lyrics to a new sea song The Boat is Past its Best.

The chorus and phrases in parentheses are sung by everyone. The remainder is for one or more soloists. The concept is simple. The crew are humorously telling us (or reminiscing between each other) about their old boat - a craft close to their hearts but clearly reaching the end of its working life.

1. We've got a boat (we've got a boat)

We've had it years, it's still afloat

But there are times (but there are times)

it puts us to the test.

For there is more (yes there is more)

time spent on fixes whilst ashore 

We often think (we often think

"The boat is past its best.")

CHORUS 

It's past its best, we're sad to say

Repairs - there've been a lot

The boat is past its best today

But it is all we've got.

It's served us well, it's kept us safe,

It gave us fellowship, 

It's past its best but we have faith:

We'll give it one more trip.

2. A bit broke off (a bit broke off)

Dropped from the masthead up aloft

yet no one was (yet no one was)

up there in the crow's nest.

The jib once ripped (the jib once ripped);

We had no spare, the captain flipped

and growled to us (and growled to us

"The boat is past its best.")

3. The compass jammed (the compass jammed)

We didn't go where we had planned,

went further south (went further south);

we meant to go due west.

Our rudder caught (our rudder caught)

on weed, we listed to the port

and so we cursed (and so we cursed 

"The boat is past its best.")

4. The anchor chain (the anchor chain)

came loose, we drifted off again.

It took an hour (it took an hour)

to bring the boat to rest.

The hawser rope (the hawser rope)

tied to the dock would have to cope.

Ashore we sighed (ashore we sighed,

"The boat is past its best.")

Bad Service

Sadly, we all come across bad customer service or workmanship from time to time. A friend of mine encounters more than her fair share of bad service, even in the area of medical consultation.

I wrote this to cheer her up.

Some days are quite annoying,

Some days will make you seethe,

Some days are full of people

almost far too thick to breathe,

Some days you start to wonder

if you're on some sort of list

that morons use to treat you

as if YOU should not exist.

But it's not paranoia.

They really are that thick.

It's social evolution

that their heads have grown a dick.

That's why they screw up like they do;

Although their fatal flaw

Will be the time they screw themselves

And end up out the door.

If you can help that day arrive

Each time you make a stand,

Perhaps incompetence will be

reduced or even banned.

I know such optimism

may be hard but "what the hey":

Cross your fingers and take hope

Tomorrow is that day.

November is Lurking

Taking a break from political poems, this verse is Hallowe'en themed.

November is Lurking

November is lurking, just one night remains,
a deep ferrous odour pervades.
The flickering, nacreous light barely shows
what was lurking, it further degrades.
It might be it’s gone and returned to its lair,
the silence suggests solitude,
but maybe it’s waiting for prey to approach –
a typical trait of its brood.
The floor, it feels sticky, suggesting it’s fed;
it could be it’s sated, who knows?
Your foot catches something, revealed as a head
only briefly – then all the light goes.

There, in the darkness, dead lamp in your hand,
staying still, hoping eyes will adjust.
And still, there’s no sound – you don’t know if it’s there,
And still there’s that deep smell of rust.
A thought comes, insidious, feelings of doubt,
Was it wise on this All Hallow’s Eve
to venture where others have gone and been lost –
or so we’ve been led to believe?
Deciding to leave you begin to back out.
Without warning sharp claws hold you tight.
A mouth dripping mucus rasps into your ear,
“My name is November. Goodnight.”

The Tory Clan (Wellerman parody)

I know it's not politically balanced, but I look at it this way. I'm prepared to share my vitriol upon a party of any persuasion who are in government if they treat their people with such contempt.

In any case, writing these poems/lyrics is carthartic and I'm fond of creating parodies!

The Tory Clan
(To the melody of The Wellerman)

1.There once was a slip and conned were we
To give control to the Tory party,
They're so corrupt, they grind us down,
They grow, these bully boys grow (huh)

CHORUS
Rees-Mogg and Braverman come
With Patel, Dorries, Coffey, Raab (dumb),
Truss, Rishi from Boris's bum,
They'll take our lives and go.

2. Nadhim Zahawi is one more
Kwarteng, Cleverly, Eustice: poor
(in morals - for they rake in more,
their donors all aglow) (huh)

3. Barclay, Wallace, Malthouse and Shapps
don't care about the energy caps
as power falls into their laps
Who cares if poverty grows (huh)  

4. Javid, Gove no longer around
but hanging on - that Boris clown,
Care home numbers were brought down
Matt Hancock had to go (huh)

5. We wonder how long can it last,
Restrictions on our freedoms passed,
We can only hope it's soon these nasty
sub-humans will go (huh)

Drive Down Wages

Another political poem, with the vague idea of creating a protest song.

The current squeeze on the low paid is becoming intolerable, with energy prices creating vast profits whilst more and more people are having to choose between eating or heating their homes. Government seem more interested in placating the donors that finance their party rather than caring for the populace. The fuel price increases affect everything else including food.

All material for a protest song.

Drive Down Wages

Drive down wages as the profits soar

Shareholder dividends are at the core

Funds to a government - their corporate whore

Mutual benefit, and they want more.

Shift blame to those whose lives are on the floor

Paid media outlets will take on this chore

Front page scapegoats we can all abhor

Distract the masses - glitz and glam galore.

If things get tight then blame a foreign war

Cut back on services already raw

Private consultancies will then ensure

Tax payer monies go to banks offshore.

When prices rise and rise and rise some more

When people starve because they're made too poor

We can't protest because it's 'gainst the law

Don't fret - be happy that the profits soar.

The Idiot at the Door

This poem needs context. At the time of writing we have a right-wing government and there is a growing dissatisfaction in the populace about their handling of the economy and their disastrous lack of care for all but the wealthy and corporate supporters that finance them.

This political poem was in response to a friend's reaction to an unexpected visitor - a supporter of the government's local representive, actually polling to see if they could expect her vote. Her views are diametrically opposed but she was so shocked at the audacity of the caller she was unable to summon the vitriol she considered apt.

Having written this, I needed a title. I considered "The Poll Chancer", "Door to Door Failsman", "The Noddy Politic" but decided on a simpler one.

The Idiot at the Door

On Saturday a knock came - a knock upon my door.

I opened it and saw a man - what had he come here for?

He asked a question, one incomprehensible to me

He surely wasn't serious yet he smiled expectantly.

"I represent your MP and we're here to take some notes.

We wondered if, come polling day, will yours be 'mongst our votes?"

As gobsmacked as I was I barely managed a reply.

A "no" seemed insufficient, but enough. He said, "goodbye."

But afterwards, upon this incongruity, I mused:

Was it shock at their stupidity? Such words I could have used!

I'd rather swallow broken glass,

or tattoo Boris on my ass,

Let spiders lay eggs in my ears,

Have pus infuse my hourly beers,

Run naked through the flames of hell,

Endure a burning methane smell

from dragons eating diseased meat,

Chew fungal skin from Rees-Mogg's feet...

I could go on (you get the gist)

The opportunity I missed

To let the moron on my path

Think I was a polymath,

To blind the berk with rhetoric

To make him realise he's thick.

It takes a Mobius logic twist

For each Tory apologist,

So finally, I'll summarise:

I will not bow to Tory lies,

And when you're asking for my vote,

It's "grow a brain, you silly scrote."

Parody: My Way

Do you ever mis-speak a song lyric without really thinking? Yes? But do you then ever feel inspired to complete the parody? Sometimes I do.

My Way

And now, I drank some beer,
Too much I fear, like Richard Burton
It start...ed with good cheer
Got off my face, of that I'm certain.
I guess... I spoke some bull
Offended some, and yet if I may,
I'll say, that's what I do,
I imbibe my way.

Cig'rettes, I've had a few
I've spluttered through, but I should mention
I find, if I can choose,
I'd prefer booze to use my pension.
When canned, I choose - of course -
the strongest ale for cash that I pay,
It means less breaks to whizz;
I imbibe my way.

Lager and limes, a jar or two,
When beer is off, what can you do?
But won't have more, there is no doubt,
I'd have a change, and drink some stout!
I'd drink it all, lean on the wall 
And imbibe my way.

I've loved to quaff with pride
I've had a swill when I am cruising
And now my brain is fried
I still will try to keep on boozing
I puked upon on the cat
(It ran away, off down the highway)
But do not fret, it did come back.
I imbibe my way.

For what is a can? What is a shot?
What is a glass? Get a pint pot!
Forget the pie that just congeals
And get a scotch 'til my head reels,
With my red nose, the record shows
I imbibe my way.

Political Parties

Recently I find the political situation in the UK to be a rich source of inspiration for poems. 

During a time when the government imposed strict rules to limit the spread of coronavirus, the population made sacrifices - one of the most heartbreaking being the restriction against being with loved ones in their dying hours.

Reports of social gatherings and parties within government were at first denied, then deflected by the Prime Minister. As evidence emerged, stories changed, eventually leading to a supposed apology in the House of Commons. At the time of writing, criminal responsibility and political fallout has still to be ascertained. 

This is the background to this poem.

 Political Parties

The PM said there were no parties,

then said that they followed all guidelines,

then in a knee-jerk

later claimed it was work,

hoping it was consigned to the sidelines.

Enraged that there "could" have been parties

The PM denied that he'd known,

Enquiries were needed

before he conceded

that any lockdown rules were blown.

When photos of Downing St garden

showed people with cheese and with wine,

it was merely a meeting

and no one was cheating -

the PM said all this was fine.

Whilst investigations continued

The chap at the helm stood aside

It was for the best

As a conflict of int'rest

made him the wrong guy to decide.

The PM still denied involvement

in parties around Number Ten.

A picture was posted

of a quiz that he hosted -

a party hat meeting again?

One hundred were emailed in lockdown

To make the best use of good weather,

to bring their own booze

if they should so choose,

to drink, socially-distanced, together.

It emerged that forty attended

with trestles set up with some nibbles.

An unlikely meeting

With boozing and eating;

Mistaken for work, came the quibbles.

But who could have made such an error?

The PM himself had attended

At first he'd not twigged

As the attendees swigged -

at least, that's how it was defended.

So now what does ev'ryone think?

When he said that no parties occurred

He'd not just been wrong

He'd been there all along

Denials are simply absurd.

The PM had lied to the House.

He'd partied and broken the rules.

Whilst Britons had died

He had partied and lied

And treated the people like fools.

Apologies will not suffice.

Whilst rare, don't believe they're sincere.

He won't leave by his choosing;

When his party fear losing,

Maybe then there's a chance that day's near.

The Unexpurgated Dickens

Imagine that Charles Dickens had been wackier and his great works had needed editing before they were published. What might they have been like before the editors applied their influence?

When Nickelby was Nicholas,
a copperfield our Dave,
Marley pulled a toilet chain
and Scrooge's end was grave.

They sold two breasts in Paris,
which was great as you'd expect,
but Oliver then twisted things 
so Bill's Sykes change was wrecked.

Fagin's gold from Nancy's boys
helped our mutated friends
so rather than find Ed's wind rude
Martin guzzled it both ends.

Each publishing house found this too bleak,
Returns would be slim pickings;
That's why these curiosities stopped,
these rarities of Dickens.

New Year 2022

Sometimes one starts to write a poem and it runs away with you. This one did, and as it ran it became progressively darker. The trouble was, it was supposed to be a short rhyme to mark the new year! The last couplet applies the brakes. 

Satire?

No, I'm in my usual chair...

When plague descends upon the world
When rights are picked away
When parasites pretend to lead
When foolishness holds sway
When lies are told repeatedly 
When truth is oft ignored
When mainstream media's controlled 
When food's hard to afford
When profiteering causes deaths
When facts get in the way
Cheer up! It couldn't happen here!
Enjoy this New Year's Day! 

Rear Wind Oh!

It is an odd world. When a reality star makes money by breaking wind into jars in order to sell them, it's another example of that.

When there's a report that this same reality star has been hospitalised for overdoing it, then it might just inspire a poem.

"Effervescence of the bowels, my dear,
It's better out than in;
Expel the noxious fumes without
They may ferment within.
Now if you must contain yourself,
but wish to profiteer
Sterilise a jam jar then 
insert it in your rear.

Discharge the methane slowly
and when the jar is full,
Tighten up your sphincter
And check the void is null.
If all is well then screw the lid
Upon the gas-filled jar;
repeat the process 'til you're done -
you'll know the time you are.

Now if you've done your marketing, 
have buyers for your gas,
price up your jars accordingly 
and rake in all that brass.
But don't do this to great excess,
For it's a guarantee
If you progress to demi-johns
You will need A & E."