I stand opposed to all privilege,
To the bitter end.
Yet, if it be mine own
I do, as a dog with a bone
My privilege defend,
Gainst foe and friend
Privilege
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There was an elderly general called Lot
There was an elderly general called Lot
Who remarked “queen and country, wot!”.
Why he did so,
I really don’t know.
I regret that Lot got shot!
Glass
Silent reflector of dreams.
A girl’s make-up seems
To hide
What lies inside.
For no crack must be seen
On your perfect screen.
But girls waking up, in the morning,
Stretching, yawning,
Should they chance
To glance
In the glass, may see
The real she.
There was a young lady called Glass
There was a young lady called Glass
Who hailed from the working class.
She wed an aristocratic old farmer,
Who was far from a charmer,
But were there’s muck there’s brass.
(For the origin and meaning of the phrase “were there’s muck there’s brass”, please see http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/408900.html).
There was an elderly gentleman called Farmer
There was an elderly gentleman called Farmer
Who was a real old charmer.
He proposed to a much younger girl,
Which put her head in a whirl.
They were married by a Tibetan Lama.
Platform
A couple on the platform kiss.
“This
Place isn’t real” he says.
Oh happy days
For lovers. And I
Do not hear what she answers in reply.
(From my archives) – “Kipling May Regret”
This poem first appeared here on 9 April 2017:
In the restaurant its just the waiter and I,
While outside the window Vehicles speed by.
“There are a lot of beautiful women outside today”,
He remarks by way
Of conversation.
I drink
My wine and think
About this nation
On who’s empire the sun would never set.
Kipling may regret,
Yet
The sun continues to shine
And there is curry and wine,
While in the street
Multiracial feet
Hurry
Along,
Beating out a more or less harmonious song.
Autumn Sun
There is sadness in the Autumn sun
For our fun
Is almost done.
The prize could have been won
But we let it slip away
As there is always another day.
So we sit here,
In the fall
And recall
What could
And should
Have been done
What happens when a poet lets his pen run aimlessly away?
What happens when a poet lets his pen
Run aimlessly away,
In the mid afternoon?
Soon
Maybe
He will write of a tree
Or some such thing.
Perchance he will talk of cabbages and kings.
But no, that would be to steal Mr Carroll’s words,
A thing not heard
Of amongst honest men,
Who dip their pen
In blood red ink
And think
Of original ideas.
Perchance they speak of wasted years
And tears that fall
And how all love turns to gall.
But there is, I fear
Nothing original here,
So I shall compose a verse about wenches and beer.
Yet women and wine (both truly divine)
Have been done to death by versifiers.
I must seek for different fires
To warm the hearts
Of those who lose themselves in the poetic arts.
But there are none,
For sages long since gone
Have said and done,
And had their fun
With words
That fly
Or die
Never to be heard
Again,
Accept perhaps in the rhymer’s drunken brain
Where he recollects a line
He once considered rather fine.
“We are all equal” he said
“We are all equal” he said.
We nodded our collective head
For who can disagree
That all are equal? But what about free?
“Society is unfair” he said.
Once more, a nod of the collective head.
But who will give up his bed
For the tramp who carries his load
Along yonder road?
“Much of the map was once red
And the English have blood on their hands” he said.
So we dwelt on empire’s shame
And absolved today’s corrupt dictators of all blame,
For Mugabe is a saint
And it is quaint
To believe that the empire did any good
For, of course it produced only blood.
“Let us raise a toast
To the ghost
Of Marx” he said.
I shook my head
And headed for bed.
