Samphire on the sea shore and later
there is more
fish from the sea and all
of it free, I
set my table for the feast
drinking wine,
another taste of the grape and
the yeast
and the least I can do
is
to thank someone fabulous.

Dear god,
what a great job you've done
you gave me all this and
you gave me the sun.

ps got any ketchup?

The weekend stretches out
like a loaf of fresh baked bread.
I want to cut myself a slice but
I'm poorly,
tucked up in my bed.

Life isn't fair
even when I'm in there,
I should get well and tell life
to go to hell.

I received a letter
from the doctor,
it said
'you're better,
back to work'
The doc's a berk.

In spite of it all
I think I will fall and
taste Saturday night,
take a slice from the Sunday and
drift back slowly
into
Monday
where the week stretches out and
I'll wonder what the weekend was
all about.

...and where did you go,
like the wind that doth blow through my hair
one moment you're here and then you are
where?

The moonlight,silvery,garnishing the sand
and
I
working at the lime pit
hands caked white,
a negative in a night of negatives and
wondering about the
what if's and if I might
flow,
like the lime in the kilns flow,
hot and steam through a tropical dream.

Breakfast,
an ordeal of a meal when my
mind
already full
can take no more.
I want to be under the moonlight
on the silvery sand
on a tropical shore.
Is that
too much to ask?

There is no night
no day
no love
no way not a minute to say
or an hour left to pray
no more games to play
or debts I should pay
everything
everything
everything is grey.

No blacks
no whites
no colours to light up the nights
no stars in the sky
or tears left to cry
and nothing to say
the whole World is grey.

Where once I had seen
verdant valleys of green and the reddening of a rose
and colours had put on great colourful shows
I now see places
obsolete, formed by the desperate concreting of dreams over blue mountain streams and in the scenes of a play
I watch my life turning grey
and I'm old
I have sold the fountain of truth for a look back at youth that I was
and in the young man I see
a colourful rainbow that once upon a long time ago was me
but no *** of gold no more colours to hold and nothing more to say
everything
everything
everything is grey.

There's a cotton wool ball where my head used to be, runny eyes, runny nose and that's how it goes on a Wednesday in May,
I may take a hot drink
I think that I will with some lemon and honey, I may take a pill but as yet I'm unsure if there's a cure for this malady, m' lady will know, she is the remedy for all things that go
wrong.
My throat's set afire as the fever gets higher and as the brandy gets lower, I become slower, my eyes and my nose cease to run and I feel that I'm on the road to recovery, then I wake and discover she has tended my aches, taken my pain, changed all the bedsheets and she has done it again, mended the man as only she can.
The cotton wool ball has scored an own goal and I've won for a while, so it's a smile for the day and the way she defends me against anything that attacks me or lays me down low and that's how things go
on a Wednesday in May.

Cameron's a Klingon.

Star trek or Shrek
it's all make believe.

You wanna believe it?
okay,
makes your day
I make my play and
vote with my coat on
I'm gone.

A one armed Gorilla from Gabon
climbed up a tree and hung on
though he couldn't swing
oh boy
could he sing
and he went by the name of
King Kong.

When Cameron came to Stratford
he came in disguise,
afraid of the eyes accusing him,
he stood in the stadium
like an Athenian,
but we saw through his games
and Olympiad flames,
when Cameron came to Stratford
we buggered off to Crewe.

They opened up my heart to see
the self and fallibility
and
in the time of waking,I saw
continents for taking,saw the minerals
that broke the souls,
the souls that slaved for yellow gold, and
holding on to minds, were free men breaking
open liberty or was that in a dream I had when
morphine took the best of me,the green light of
my destiny marched off and set the dogs to bark and
I would be a danger if I had the sense to know it
but when danger shows its face to me,
the self and fallibility comes in
and laughs out loud.
I see the ending of an era and  fear a sharp reminder that
the Devil sits in memory of dreams that he once sold to me,
upon the bed I tremble as the angels all assemble
and they're shaking out their wings while in the background
I hear Elvis sing and
Graceland is my home.

Life subliminal,more than criminal,a nasty travesty to be able to look and be unable to see,to speak without sound and yet to drown in the clamour,
where the glamorous party long into the night but the night longs for rest and who knows but the best that the best's not what we've got.
And the ***** who tramps through his haze gazing at stars locked in his jailhouse behind mental bars knows nothing of this,
his life is an out take,his bones wait for day break but the night knows best.
The glamorous and the glum,a mansion and a slum and for some life's a scream,for others it's a dream and for me it just seems that we're all being beamed,
subliminal messages.

It is surely in the hour of the day that the moment lives and gives us more than we think that the moment we live in gives,
when in the passing of the scattering of the fleeing images, we see some sense of an ending,some order to finality.
I may be right or wrong,
and that is the long and short of it but I am caught up and intend to free flow with it,to whatever that finality may be.

I see the end as beginning and in beginning this end, I tend to muse on those thoughts that are sent to confuse and send one into a spin,it's a waltz on the fairground,
a merry go round,a wurlitzer,blitzer,blockbuster and the lustre is still there,
shine on sweet time.

And it's all in those moments we often forget,those what if we did's and we didn't do yet,
and the wish it was me's but it is if please,
dismiss the hours in a day,
and those moments in absentia would lead you into dementia where you would not know the real from the moments that feel,right or wrong,each day is as long as the rest,
take the best of them
knit them in gold and hold onto them,without them you're old and grey and the day is still there,
watching you stare at the blank and the bleak and next week?
Next week
another moment will seek you,may find you but what you do is what counts in the end.

Did you wake up thinking of me
did you wake up wondering what it is I can see
or did you sleep anyway
did you want to hold onto the day 'til forever came knocking at the door
did you like what you saw
was it worth waiting for
did you wake up thinking of me?

When I sleep, I see you in my dream
and if it seems like I'm dreaming the meaning is clear
I need to get near to you
tomorrow that's what I'll do
did you wake up thinking of me?

When we're old will life tell us okay
you can have your dreams everyday
would it be just the same
is it more than a game
did you wake up thinking of me.

When the morning is tangled in night
and the evening is light from another day
That's when I listen real carefully
hoping you care for me
glad that you're there to see
did you wake up thinking of me?

No fanfare here
no trumpets
just a
so long and nice to seeya
and move along there's nothing to see
be a
darling
move along, please.

High above the bay of pigs
tables moved around,
no fanfare here
just the sound
of change being changed and
nothing to see here, be
a dear and move along, please.

On hallowed ground in hallowed halls where stalls are put out to catch those locked out or in depending on their point of view
I saw you dancing with Joe Carter, bartering your soul?
The devil dresses many ways and moves like Fred Astaire
I saw you dancing there with him
I saw you in the dim light on the last night of the proms
on hallowed ground in hallowed halls I wished I'd had the ***** to punch Joe Carter in the face

'Jack be nimble
Jack be quick',
Jack's a *******, it
makes me sick to think of him
young and fit
not fat but slim
and look at me,
I've
seen better days.

There are lines upon the lines upon the lines created in my face
my stomach used to have a place to fit, no more,
the last notch on my belt has bit the dust
if I must,
I can
or just about pretend to be the man I am.

The musk deer's gone
this is just a husk that carries on
to
blow away in what was once
a better day.

Time allots me
tiredness knots me
and
only the consequence stops me
from throwing in the towel
and so early in the day
I wonder
if the day will end this way,
if time allots me
and conscience stops me
and tiredness takes
me away.

Words multiplying inside my brain,buzzing like bees making honey again
I relax into a hot wax bath, earthed and birthing joined up writing,
multiplying's so exciting.
In barren times I spin no rhymes,not one bee and no honey for me but now,kapow it's multiplying and though I'm trying
I struggle to stop the words from sliding,rocketing out and colliding,even then this collision's providing me
with more honey,
and more bees buzzin' in my head.

There are some who knew what a doobree
could do and a doobree could do it so well,
some slid with me on a slide into hell
with a doobree you could do that as well.

Now,
if a doobree doo is not a drug you would use
I have one more, which is
my own drug of choice,
and,
it's to open your mouth and inject your voice
everywhere a doobree can't.

Do you remember that time when I pulled your hair and you cried to Auntie Sue?
I do.
Can you recall how amazingly tall Uncle Tom was?
because I can.
Then I turned into a man as if any boy can, and these thoughts that occur make me wish to be back there
amid the bluebells and corn in the fields of my home.
But we roam and the home becomes distant,though a piece is always kept in the back of my mind,along with comic books and her good looks and sometimes I forget how I shook like a leaf,when the first time was that time just beyond a belief.
No grief though as I go through these pictures that tell me and in images fell me
just smiles across the miles of the years that separate,
me and my fate
we've got another kind of date to arrange
a strange sort of meeting
straight talking,no cheating
I'll be waiting at the gate
in that state of unreadiness
I'm famous for.

Taken on a trip through the why don't I slip through the net?
set back from the light in the shadow  that might be the shadow of me and
who is free is he who can see the night shift its shape,
landscapes on canvas and seascapes in galleries, it's no wonder to me why Valerie went over to the other side.

Positive thinking in the tin where yesterday is chinking its chains does  my brains in,

Weary,
eyes bleary and nobody hears me,
it's that kind if say you get lost on the way, but I'm used to it.

On the tube.

I stand can't sit and these people just look and don't give a **** about me which all sounds like Valerie.

If this is the day and I am who I am, who's got the script
where is the man that I used to be

' why don't you come on over Valerie'

At the point where the afterburner turns into the foreground I look around me,
there is no Valerie and
only what's left if the dream wasn't right,
the night shifting shape
the rim on a wheel,
sometimes I feel
unreal.

Maybe she was Russian black or
maybe my imagination,
but she moved like snow on peppermint,
slow and tasty and
much to my amazement,
she melted lines upon my face and
I,
stepping light on all the right stones
making magic with these old bones
melted into her.

With several leaps into frustration
my destination marker hardly
changed at all, though
I had run through cracking panes of glass
where reflections would not let me pass
I saw the end.

She blew a kiss and disappeared
I flew into a rage and feared that
I would die,
but
angels do not work that way they
reappear another day,
and so
I wait,
with pepperminted tongue in cheek
I shall be silent and not seek
another one.

Russian black or red or white
snow and peppermint at night
is my desire.
I light the fire and wait for her
to come and dine with me
and share my appetite.

The problem is,
no matter that I walk for a thousand miles or a month, or a year
I find myself back here
where I started from.
I am the karma reconstitute,the weak man or the resolute
but I always come back to the start
and it's the start that's the matter,it begins as I shatter another life that I live and goes on,
that's the problem.

I may be that hamster on a wheel,in a cage I can't see but I feel that it's there as everything spins,or am I the doll you stuck pins in
but,
then I think,if I was punctured
I would not spin and I'm back at the beginning,flat on the floor,what's more,
I do feel deflated,dried up,desiccated but the karma kicks in and once again I begin to evolve and to spin and the wheel feels so real as I turn into what you would want to believe.

When I was but a lad with snot on my sleeve and in my pocket of sweets where
I could then truly believe in some transitional state,I related quite well,
but I grew and it all went to seed
it's not hell that I need but it's hell that I get and yet
heaven's out there,
there are angels in Tooting, (like me) reconstituting and waiting for a share of the pie.

Ventilation shaft
aft.
Fresh air pumped out in a flash.
Upon crash dive a bell will sound, hold
tight
we're going underground.

Like moles who wish to buck the trend
I wish the constant night would end,
these tunnels that we make..
..me laugh.

Ventilation?
Call it gas.

****** in, trucked out, this is what life's all about, shifting shadows shape us into that which is the late
us.

Fluid chains of ether either here or in Ibiza,
ventilation from the shaft?
or just the same old laughing gas?

Almost effortlessly it appears to be
somewhat divine
cuts the line so fine through skin and bone
homes in on the malady that's affected me
and burns it out.
Laser beams unpicking seams
I deem it best to just accept the light
lay back and relax
while the laser attacks
me
internally.

It's like Star Wards
tied by hospital cords
and it's scary
but interesting and fascinating
hyperventilating
fear
the laser comes near
closing my eyes
nobody dies who comes into the light
Yeah alright
I'll believe
but the laser freezes and does not burn
which is of some concern
did not expect that turn of events.

The surgeon cements me together
he's clever
and say's 'all done
nothing to worry about'
then goes off with a gun in his hand
to laser beam land?

Everything moves so fast
where once a plaster cast would have done,
Today,
everyone wants to blast you with a laser
gun.
Zapped.

Smoky grey under a pink lipstick sky and to one side and above me in the blink of an eye
dawn breaks.

A yawn takes me to that place
how about you?

I wake being early like the bird with the worm, but I catch the germ of an idea on my lips, ships leaving port that are caught by the tide
Side by side, groom and glide and the bride with a broom sweeping the stardust away.

Inside the brightly painted hut
crinkle cut and candy flossed where old men dossed out of the rain and one more stain don't make no odds to Gods who '**** a deaf un',
sits Johnny Stone,
among the brittleness of skin and bone, he wears his worries and his cares away by sniffing grey hairs up his nose.
Posing every now and then for beachside surfers who,when they see this man survives amid the torture of the lies that haunt his face,move on to another place and forget they've ever seen and glad they've never known
Johnny Stone.
In this tinsel town one more Stone goes down and one more becomes the one that's trading places,revolving dreams on sunlit faces and a bigger pile of luggage cases for the dustbin men to take away
Stay at home,carve your dreams quite thinly off the bone, or you'll end up like Johnny Stone,
hungry
and all alone.

The authorities can authorise as much as they please but they have no authority over me.
it's the rule of austerity
It's a dog eat dog and if you're down on your luck,you might as well **** on it,they don't give a **** and once you've feasted on failure it don't hurt a bit,
and a pound in your purse is as much of a curse as no money at all,you want to buy this,you want to buy that but you ain't got a bit of food in your flat.
'Live off the fat of the land',
like those buggers in Whitehall who sit on their hands and yet still have hands free, as they wave them around to try and authorise me.

And in those ivory towers the powers that be who think of roast beef and not about me,carry on, as if it's all tickety boo,
but you know,it was never like that as you sit in your flat with no food,the TV shows a riot,you should think why not try it and you're becoming unglued,
falling to bits and it's them effing ***** what's to blame.

It is art that oils the moving parts of me
the free flowing nectar in the seed of me,
art in ******* tips and the half full skips,
the 'tramps' that ship the coal around the coast.

I play host to the wonder of words that make up the rhyme,
more 'fog on the Tyne'
the lowlands and highlands within these Islands and bridges to cross,

It is art in the heart and what we see with the eyes,love it,despise it,ignore or get wise to it,
everywhere I look, I see that someone took time,moulded , transformed it and changed forever this world a bit
and every bit helps.

My fingers are lazers ,blazing out art,starting to burn in every sentence that turns and turning to light,
gutters that utter to me prophecies and in the pharisees I see only samaritans who give
salute to the pimps and the prostitutes,the Kings and the courtiers,those who buy and who sell,who are
milled in the gin of it,the thin and the quick of it,tied to the wheel in the cockpit and spitting out what could be me for the hell of it.

I see art in the  faces that stare blankly,to flicker at screens in store windows,art in the glow of the cigarette end,in the bending of imagination, where salvation is palmed off to an ungrateful nation as corn from the candyclouds,art in the female,the he man, the mail man,the banter of cantors,the whispers of sisters the sadness,the badness,the joy and the gladness is there,
out looking to share,insiders,
outsiders,lone wolfstate riders and in pairs or in threes all looking to please,
street paintings,feint bread  lines on fences,dull
brush strokes on brickstock
unlock your mind
find your
art.

The alarm bell.
Did you sleep well
did your dreams have pictures coloured in and was the crayon that you took from out of the crayon tin, called me,
did you see me smile
feel me touch you
was the crayon colour blue?

Was the night a colour of its own
did we groan or were we silent at the midnight chime
did we colour one more time?

If I'm in your dreams,you're in mine
so
let's colour one more time before the morning breaks the night and tomorrow we can watch the colours run as we too run into the night again,into the fun again
and in the crayon box where no locks are set
we'll get our pictures filled with colours, until all time is stilled and then it will not matter any more,that our colourings lay scattered,
for the floor will be our painting book
and all it takes,or all it took
was the empty page to set a stage for hues to fuse into our hearts
and this is how the colour starts.

At six past six
I forget about the colours and the pics and dash to make the train for six fifteen
and entering once again into the dream,I wonder why it seems so clear,the colours that we hold,hold dear to us,
and such a fuss
about the way we make the crayons that we take and break along the way.
It's all a day of finding out what colours we like and what crayons are all about and why shout?
A silent glance,another chance,a crayon tin,a colouring in and off we go again.

Village life city style.

Going shopping,
once the necessity has now become the must have fashion accessory,faces adorned with quorn burgers,hamburgers,lamburgers,mouths full of soda pop and this they call the weekend shop
it's enough to make you stop and think and blink your eyes in disbelief,good grief we're heading to obesity and nothing ever comes for free,we're paying through the nose for, goodness knows what's in the meat,is it pork within those pies or horseflesh? they just tell us lies and still we stuff our faces 'til we've had enough,eaten our fill,one day I'm sure we'll all explode,
I bet the greedy ******* will even try to barcode that.

When I was ten and grandad was at least a million years in the making and the sun took longer to rise than to set before the bar code was compulsory and CCTV cameras were a fantasy, when the speed limit was the maximum we went and I spent days on the banks of the tidal flow waiting for something to come or to go little realising that the tide was inside me and the sea was the ocean that fed me a dream,
when I was ten is a million years in the making and grandad was there all the time.

I sit in Amniotic sac

No going back.

I’m on a berth to history

A cruise through lifes rich mystery.

I feel her heartbeat

Watch her meet

The spasms

Contractions.

Fractions of time

Time to be mine.

I see the beginning of the end

Nurses tend.

And I am born.

One deep breath away
from the start of another day,

Begin,

moving on with a spring in my step
pat the pet cat
feed the budgerigar
turn the key in the car,

so much for the spring in my step!

got go get from here to there
pollution in the air,
but I'm seated in a Peugeot
and that's the way to go.

I'm feeling slinky
it must be the dress which
I admit
rather suits me
rather *****,

on the count of three I am
no longer me.

More paintings,
sketchings
copper plate etchings
I look and see them all,
and fall into
those hand picked scenes,
paintings,sketchings,
etching dreams.

Landseer,
Constable,
Turner,
Vermeer,
they're all here
selling their scenes
making my dreams
come true.

Tell me men of Agincourt
what was it for
why did we fight and
did we win at all?
A hundred years of war
what was it for?
The prelude that we chew upon
meatless bones across
the Somme?
Tell me,
Edward,Humphrey,Henry,
men of Agincourt,
what was it for?

The day my head exploded was a normal sort of day,
I was walking with my sausage dog
along the sands of Morecambe bay,
when all at once which happened twice, something occurred
which wasn't nice.
The shifting sands with shifting hands clasped me tightly by the legs,my sausage dog thought it a game but the hands reached out and grabbed him just the same.
We both thought that this was the end,
me and sausage,
mans best friend.
Sinking slowly in the sands,the dog and I held by those hands which gripped us ever tighter.
it might have been an act of God or it may have been my sausage dog who saved my life,
just when all seemed lost and done,
my head exploded like a gun and out of it came a length of hope which dog and I fastened to a rope and slowly pulled ourselves quite free from those grasping hands and the greedy sea.
Afterwards,
after a cup of tea and a bonio,( for the dog you know)
we decided not to go
that way on a walk again.

I could if I wished add to the list,
it goes on if I do or do not
I could imagine or throw in my lot
with
the wandering minstrels
then I've got songs good or sad
I could add.

I imagine

the preen if the peacock can preen is a scene clipped from Dante's inferno

I know
I have been there
my plumes facing where
the air meets resistance.

I have fought and have failed
seized the day and been jailed

the German in me
don't give a
Fuchs

but it's a patch under par

and I have no wish to be a
generalisation
a mile post that marks the end of a civilisation.

I am the art
in me
the living part
of me
and the only piece you see
is that what you want me to be

If it is a list and any addition I may make could be possibly missed

Tough.

I never knew what it was that I wanted, but now I do,
to queue, to queue, to stand in a queue waiting quietly for you and as the queue snakes it breaks and reforms and takes the form of a snake and the best bit is where the start of it disappears into the end.
As I bend and writhe the snake comes alive spitting but missing hissing and hitting the mark, in the dark you can't see who's in the queue, but you hear them,
old men, young men, men when  the ale house turns out and lots of females too join the queue, I can sense them among the old and the young men, their perfume leaves little room for doubt.
And who knows where the queue goes, but we queue anyway, one day we'll queue our life away and
I'll be in the queue for that.

(20 minute poetry)

Life beats you down
it gives you the smile
and then rips you
the frown,
dontya just love how
life takes you down.

It's rhetoric and enough of it
to make you sick.

What makes you tick?
What clicks your fingers?

Who needs to float when an ocean's so deep?
Who takes the dog watch tonight?

I keep my own counsel.

The season changes rapidly,
Spring bouncing by and blue Summer sky falling in,
can you
feel the sting
yet?

There's an upside I'm positive,
a terminal ending in a plus sign,
that ending is mine.

But it's Tennessee blue in the Central line zoo,
they're all caged
so am I
watching and waiting for
the Spring to bounce by
for the Summer sky
for longer days
for
different ways
to move on.

What came after before the laughter,
before the laughter came?
a conundrum
a game I like to play, to while away the
hours of each day.

The answer hides
some place deep inside where
the tear drops give a display,
deep in the well
where the heartbreaks dwell and
the night never turns into day.

In the dark and damp a lonely *****,
I see that the lonely *****
could be me.
But it's a game, a game
before the laughter came and
after that I have tea.

There is light climbing up on the horizon where the day puts another disguise on and I have the kettle on.

The bells haven't started to ring yet but a debt I must pay is on the way,

Sunday and the faithful are beaming.

The older I become the more salt I throw over my shoulder,
protection is nine tenths of my religion.
It's a join the queue and take a pew the sermon begins about ten and then we'll be healed for next week when we're sealed
back into the city again.

An accordion player smokes a long cigarette sat on the seat where he's slept with his feet on the ground
I've seen him before in East Ham, a short rather fat man who carries his tunes rather well and sells people a song for the price of a tea,
he doesn't see me.

A refugee?
an immigrant?
back bent with the weight of his cross.

I toss another egg in the pan and wonder who's loss and what kind of man can stand and ignore what shouts in your face outside the door.

No one goes somewhere to get nowhere.

We travel on with the scarecrow,
the one that puts straw in our ears.

Cobwebs in corners.

In the rooms of my yesterday
I watch myself play
with 'action men'
'Bill and Ben' on the black and white
tea on the table and mum looks alright
and then my brothers come in
tuck in
******* the ham from my bones.

I like being alone.

My sister comes in and she's wearing a tu-tu
she goes to a ballet school
I take her sometimes and I sit like a fool
watching arabesques
quite Chaplinesque and
I try not to giggle
but I'm a boy growing up and it's hard not to wriggle or squirm.

And I turn into tomorrow where it seems
I have borrowed a few wrinkles and crinkles from Grandad
who's not doing so bad for an old one
but I hold on
to the room
it's my sanctuary
my place of safety.
In a world that's so feisty
my room is so nice
I see
how it looks when I close my eyes tight.
Your own room is waiting
somewhere
late at night at the place where the light shines
through the windows of good times.

I go back to the black and white
in the place where
it's all alright
and where dreams just might
come true.

I look in the mirror and see
not me
see
not me
I see
an artist with a frock on,
backing up a bit
I see
an artist with a smock on,
not me.

And they're talking 'bout the Shard!

if a ***** looking thing ever
looked so hard
it's the Shard.

I'm talking Annoyed and
thinking of beating up Freud
they're
thinking Schadenfreude,

that's why Lloyds
exists
for sinking wrecks and
sunken ships.

It's a hell of a mess
when you've got to confess
you've made a hell of a mess,
reflections of me in a dress,

(frocks is cool,
but they don't fool the mirror)

Cruising
pen in hand
Saddique in the driving seat
beat Boris hands down
to be the
new Mayor
in London town.

Out on the balcony and
the only thing to welcome me
is pigeon **** and
two white feathers
and the
weather's
nice.

Fifteen degrees and she's
in a bikini,
who let the genie out
of the lamp?

Were we that time in a place
Or the place in that time?
Whatever the answer
I guess that it's fine.

But I can never decide
Lord knows how I've tried.
Sat up in the loneliness in the long distance of night
Wondering if one was wrong
Or the other one right.

And at the end of it
I made no sense of it.
In time and place where the staggering minutes will stand up and face you
Look through you, and to you it comes as a shock then
to realise the clock when
it strikes
does not make a mark in the dark where you lay.
Stay there
Stay where the light disappears
and it will never be said that the tears you once shed were seen,but just wasted.

No one can see you when time looks right through you
like the deadbeat
where the day meets his night.
Does time or his place in his time seem alright
Does he run through the legends he's heard
Believe he has shared in that wealth
Does he have good health?

In some life where there's time and the place
in case we should also fall flat on our face
and struggle to rise.
I look into my own eyes and what do I see?
A man that could be, and once was, a man just like me.

Tears will not help,cry if you please
get down on your knees and pray.
In the time and the place of today
we have got to do more than we say.

Stay silent and die
Do not hear the cry
Lie to yourself and say it's okay
Just another today.

The vicar loves to lord it while we sinners sit on devil's pews and this abuse is all contrived to make us think that all our lives are as nothing to the life of christ, who suffered at the hands of man but was his plan to make my *** go numb or listen to the sermon from some vicar who though dumbstruck with communion, rambles on long enough to wake the dead?

I wholeheartedly agree with the words, 'pick up thy bed and walk'
jeez,
talk about a one man band who gives and with the other hand can slap the slices from a loaf of bread.
If I ever go to hell it will be first class, the Brighton Belle can kiss my *** I want a limo to take me to limbo and a Triumph TR7 to pick me up at the gates of Heaven and roar into the night.

We sharpen axes, knives and the occasional wit
and we don't do it lightly because
the grindstone is ****.

It's a job
It's a job
for Tom. **** and Bob
a likely looking trio if ever
a ******* was.

I go it solo
believe in my mojo
the grindstone is too
slow for me.

You can stare
I don't care
You can jeer
I don't hear.
I'm on the inside,
the track
where I ride out
the pitfalls and catcalls.
The **** crows and
he knows
what time means, and will be,
meanwhile
all that you do is
stare,
stare at me,
I don't care.

We went everywhere
together
and got nowhere,

life goes on.

Ring a ring a roses
******* up your noses
atishoo
atishoo
the septum breaks down.

dedicated to all those hard working city boys.

The underground mouse in the underground house scurries through Chancery Lane as he nibbles on knick knacks thrown down between train tracks,
In the main he is pleased that there's a lack of green cheese for he thinks of himself, a connoisseur,
though he never turns up his nose as he goes for the pickings that fall out of boxes of Kentucky fried chickens.
I like underground mice and think they're very nice,
I wonder what they think of me.