Winter Mornings

Something neither political or shanty related today. I don't know if it's a belated after effect of catching Covid-19 last year, but I note my eyes are a touch more light-sensitive when I awaken. Combine this with the resumption of a cold spate of weather and it took me a while to get out of bed. This inspired a short poem. 

The following day I noted frost on top of the cars parked in my street. This confirmed that I was right to turn my radiators on again - however briefly this period should be!

 

 

Winter Mornings

 

T'was far too bright for tired eyes.

From winter sun they hid.

I raised the duvet just a nick

and risked one peeper's lid.

I squinted at the clock display;

I thought that I should rise.

I let the cotton tunnel drop -

too bright for tired eyes.

 

The air's too cold for backs of arms.

The temp'rature's too low

I turned the radiators off

A couple-o' days ago.

The warmer spell was just a blip.

The bed still holds those charms.

I let the duvet drop again;

too cold for backs of arms.

 

Perhaps I should get out of bed

despite the light and cold.

Though forty minutes have passed by

it's not because I'm bold.

I'm not as young as once I was;

that's why I raise my head.

My bladder overrules my brain -

I should get out of bed.

 

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."