Friday, 20 April 2012

The death of an old soldier.

July 1948 was the date,The NHS was born; to Tory scorn.
from the cradle to the grave, something for the brave,
who'd fought in World War Two;
for me and you.

Walter was young and bold, now he's old and cold.
The heating bills are high, He counts his meagre pension with a sigh.
He feels ill, did he take that pill?
He needs a break, his arms ache.

His chest begins to hurt, he grasps at his shirt,
grasping for breath, sweating - near death.
Voices, 'Granddad!' 'Hold in there old lad.'
Sirens and lights. Walter's old, but he fights.

Recovering, good, eating his food.
Low budget cleaning, private firm.
Somehow Walter picked up a germ.
MRSA the scourge of the day.

Low budget Nursing home; some don't have to pay;
unless like Walter, they worked every day,
saved up hard all their life, to look after children,
along with the wife.

Kids sold his house to pay for his care,
whilst scroungers didn't have to pay any fare.
Walter died of MRSA and neglect.
A weakened old man deprived, without care; bereft of respect.

In the end Walter suffered, confused, alone, and in fear,
He was loved by family but, the Government don't care?
Low budgets, neglect for privatisation;
A terrible abuse of those who saved our Nation.  

Thursday, 19 April 2012

War Babies.


The war babies came in with a bang,
in a war when they sang
of Bluebirds, Kitbag’s and Farewells.
Heroic parents with stories
to tell of their Glories
in a hell where their brave comrades fell.
Flat caps and mack’s and demob suits
and very shiny leather boots.


They fought for peaceful days.
So we got a new craze...
We put on our blue swede shoes
and danced away those blues.


In peace, we did what we pleased.
tight trousers, short skirts,
youths with long hair,
and draped jackets that came down to our knees.


We danced a fast dance
with an unusual stance.
Jive was alive,
girls were thrown in the air,
they didn't care.
as we rocked the dance floor,
pony tails in girls hair.


We rocked around in blue swede shoes,
We rocked away those wartime blues...
The clock struck one two three and four,
now we are knock, knock, knocking on heavens door.
We are rock rock rocking, knocking on.
Ah, how good was Freedom?

The Tyrants Come, The Tyrants Go.

Tyrants come, tyrants go,
they blow, words of fire,
Volcano!
Erupting, Spouting; Red hot rhetoric,
Hatred, they're sick.

Weapons firing in the air,
Where bullets of hate land they don't care.
Spreading hate in tyrannical rage,
banging fists upon their stage.

Hating, Ranting Tyrant, roaring Bull,
Gives us all a good earful.
The flag of hate is flying high,
woe betide those who don't comply.

War is declared, many die,
many maimed, many cry.
The Tyrants ranting days soon done,
killed in anger, by bomb or gun.

Sex Bomb, Sex Bomb! BOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMM-mmm!!! 'Helloooo you sexy Vestal Virgins.'...  Huh, They hope.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Acid Sid's Last Gasp.


Acid Sid was of disrepute.
He sold drugs to kids in a snazzy suit.
His pockmarked face was in a snarl
as he walked round with his mate Carl.

I put Carl in so that it would rhyme
but it was Sid alone who did the crime.
I chased him off; how he did cough.
He ran until his lungs gave out,
plus, he suffered terribly with chronic gout.

I said, "now look what drugs have done,"
he said, "I'll shoot you with my gun."
The bullet whistled past my head
and hit his mate Carl, who fell down; dead.

I felt guilty of a crime,
I'd introduced Carl to make it rhyme.
Acid Sid said, "I've another bullet."
He touched the trigger,but he didn't pull it.

His acidic lungs gave up on him,
His eyes rolled up, all glazed and dim.
The pain ebbed out of his gout riddled feet,
as he went to hell to face the heat.

The Great Nature Show.


Leave your Computer games, come with me,
away from all modern triviality.
Without plastic beams and plastic brass;
and disco clubs with writhing mass.
 Where birdsong is top of the charts
and creatures have the starring parts.
Hedgerow, stream, meadow and tree,
make up the stage scenery.

The curtain rises on part one  SPRING.
Music arrives on feathered wing.
Robin Hedge-sparrow, thrush, dipper, wren,
are trilling in hedgerow, wood and glen.
Skylarks liquid melody flows from high;
crystal clear tune from clear blue sky.

yellow hammer flutters among the trees,
singing, 'little bit of bred and no - cheese.
Squirrels and dormice in acrobatic acts,
with death defying leaps, they land intact.

In athletic games hares run and jump.
Toe to toe,  they grunt, hiss and thump.
The dipper curtsies and bobs enthusiastically.
What a great show; and its all for free.

The scenery changes with a more splendid hue.
More performers fly in.  SUMMER is due.

Now we have part two of the great nature show.
The stage radiates in a magnificent glow.
In cobalt flash, Kingfisher dives'
producing a fish; before your very eyes.

Dragonflies in limpid blue,
are on the aerobatic agenda too.
Moths and butterflies flutter gaily by;
sublime with splendour that makes the audience sigh.

Rabbit and hare run at a rapid pace;
performing in the great nature race.
But the faster hare reaches sixty miles an hour,
with long muscular legs as springs of power.

The stage struck pheasant struts in regal attire;
the cock of the north; plus any southern shire.
Watch Otter slide down the slippery bank.
An aquatic show of graceful, spiral, supple flank.

The morning mist lifts to reveal the next scene,
silvery laced webs bordering a golden sheen.
Its AUTUMN, part three, the trees wear a new suit,
the hedgerows and briar's offer free fruit.

The dawn chorus strikes up' all the community sing,
Starling, robin, finch, sparrow, red-wing;
also the thrush, wren field-fare and tit.
Every species does more than its bit.

Jackdaw does his funny mime,
then mischievously turns to his thieving crime.
Raven does his funny walk,
Mallard laughs, 'Quark, ack, ack, ack.' He should talk.

Overhead there's an amazing sight,
Geese and Swans in arrowhead flight.
At dusk the choir gather again;
closing part three with a beautiful refrain.

Virgin snow covers the stage.
Part four WINTER. Frost bites, the winds in a rage.
Mistle-thrush provides the music now;
determined to out whistle the wind somehow.

Stoat dresses up this time of year;
the party gatecrasher in ermine fur.
Adults only for this part of the show;
signs of struggle, blood stained snow.

Through the still night air glides the ghostly Barn Owl.
Did he commit this deed so fowl.
It may have been Foxy; he's so sly.
He was seen skulking around nearby.

The Great Nature Show

Ode to a Late Boy Racer.


He shot passed the police at a rapid pace,
The Boy decided to give them a race,
passed the tractor loaded with hay,
he hit a truck and passed away.