The quintessentially British chap, in bow tie at
the table
with a napkin on his lap.
Will ring the bell for tea,
Darjeeling,
preferably.
And with a taste of the empire on his lips,
as he slowly sips the
golden brew,
he wonders
who he can *****
over today.

When the King came down to the counting house and found all his money had gone
he ranted on as only Kings can in the Kingly way
for a year and a day,
which was surprising but only in that it reminded me of the pea green boat and the ***** cat
the loss of his dosh had nothing whatsoever to do with that.
The King was now potless
not a penny to spare
he couldn't sell knighthoods or forested woods,
he was as they say,'boracic lint'
skint
a pauper.

His Daughter,
the lady Jamille
cried a lot
for now she'd to deal with the peasantry and pleasantly so,
she had to learn how to grow,
cabbages,turnips and broad beans it seems she did well enough to feed the family with vegetables
she could stuff tomatoes with mince because quince was 'orf' the menu
she made ragout and that was a mess,spilled it all down her best lavender dress and she cried a lot more.
Being poor was not good and being knightless and single was worse,she was sure she'd been cursed by some well versed old witch who was concocting a spell to leave her quite naked,not even a stitch to her name,
I did mention her name was Jamille?
yes
Jamille learnt to steal and to lie and to cheat
a normal occupation
if you have to stand on your own two feet (in shoes which she stole)
She got caught in the end and in the courts of the justice was ordered to mend her ways.
The old King was ashamed but could hardly be blamed for this circumstance which caused him such grief
it was down to the thief who stole all of his money and the same thief pretends now to be posh,
well he would do with all of that dosh
but we know different don't we.

Clothes may make the man as much as any amount of money can but
it does not make you a king and vice versa,

How many windmills did you tilt at today
how often did you say that there's no
time left to play,
and what did the child that you are
think of that?

When the last of your life flashes in
the lens of your eyes and there really is no time left,
it'll be a surprise when you run through the images and see what you missed as you dashed off to work on the importance of you,
and you'll realise that it's not only in dreams that the windmills come true.

Being old's like being young
you have to listen to others and the fun in you's smothered by that motherly type of concern.

I fought with the wind and the mills in between and in the miles of the oceans I sunk in the green of the sea grass that grew when I was young and new and knew nothing in the every all of who that I was.

I tilt because that's who I am the boy that was trapped in the passing of man and the man that is passing some time 'til the next time and then, to tilt again
a joy
and the boy
smiles
crookedly.

The last train to lost dreams,
is at the station, leaving soon,
if you ever wished upon a star
you ought to try the Moon,
it worked for me.

Anyone can see,

if you miss the train you'll lose out,
there's no stopping on the way
it travels blindly through the sleeping night
and wakes you up next day.
I've got to go,
just got to know,
what is hidden in the corners where
my eyes fear to look
like the pages full of autographs
I've got to have a look
and see who's there.
in my dreams I dare.

The last train to lost dreams
is a million miles away, through
the silence of internal night
into the light of day
and we don't pay
the ticket's free.

Alarm bells ring
are you listening?
the policemen come and
catch someone *******.
It's Saturday night
the beer was alright
walking through the
West End wonderland.

In the doorway,
there's a stranger sleeping,
toes are peeping out from his old shoes,
a card that says he's homeless and he's hungry
he's just another person to abuse.

...chorus.

Fleetwood was good
but not as good as
Blackpool and her golden mile
Blackpool made us children smile
Fleetwood gave us fish but
Blackpool made us wish the
day would never end.

Police brutality
political chicanery, the
privateering of industry
that polarises community

Poetry
you can plainly see is ruining me along with corporation tax and mindless drone attacks,
but
I can bomb my own flat
empty magazines into my own dreams, eject the casings, reload and repeat,

I sabotage my own defences
IED's I have for tea
Nothing feels better than opening a love letter when it blows up in your face

That place is reserved

In the bunker when the fans are on, when the sound of screaming gulls are gone and the air is scrubbed before we breathe
I do believe

and that belief is based on movie reels, deals I've done with the Devil and the good lord's son,
the ruling class, the kiss my *** brigade and pharmaceutical top grade opiates.

If what is
is what is
what it is and
what it takes?

I only open my eyes when I'm sleeping and that's to watch me watching me scribbling out some poetry and

erasing my body chemistry

I can see it
if that is it.

I sleep now in monochrome
On a mono bed in a mono home
And in those blacks and whites
Of my monochrome nights
I dream.
Technically in faint hues
Of reds and greens and blues.
But she who left
Was the colour on my page
The spoken word upon my stage
And now in monochrome
Like the howling winds outside the door I moan
And comb through the echoes
To hear her voice.

It
sounded like someone was clearing their throat
that awkward sound that sounds like
I sound when I'm getting my coat.

It could have been Arabic, Yuruba, the
language of Myanmar, it could have
been German or Russian or it could just be me
with a spot of concussion.

Dropped on my head I hear languages,
some still living, some long dead
but it still sounds to me
that someone is clearing their throat and
getting my coat sounds a better idea.

Red-eyed and tied to a railway sleeper
someone have mercy on her,
Stop the train.

I watch these silent movies which lack the
pain of sound but ease the brain and
she always escapes from the train,
the hero,
inevitably a man canters in and frees her from
certain death.

Breath fogs the lens with the cold mist of time,
I forgot the lady chained to the line and tried to
make Miss Pickford mine,
she refused me I think, now I drink in
these movies which move me to tears
where did all those years go.

I think that we should analyse
their tax affairs
disturb and sift the little truth
from all the lies and then
we'll see
just how they've cheated
you and me.

But would you bother?
ask yourself, or
leave the ledgers on the shelf
to gather dust?

Dodgy dealing?
what they do is classed as stealing
ripping off the system
claiming while they're unemployed
but they're working and
that gets me annoyed.

I pay my tax
I pay my dues
why think that I'll be quiet if they continue to abuse the welfare state?

The outcome?

Well we wait to see
what's in the store
of apathy.

When the ampersand means more to men and the sword
becomes much mightier than the pen
it's time to leave Mesopotamia alone and
travel down the river, home
to the sea.

up theer atop
Pendlebury hill

Lowry still,

matchstick thin
a flat cap
cheeky grin,

he paints the rain
grainy,

although
not always on a Sunday.


I Watch him by the mill race,
a mill shed face
that catches old like new
for me,

L.S Lowry
ought to be
hanging in the Tate,

oh wait,
he is.

We do as we do,
stay still and the mildew will get you,move on,get the rush,push people aside,ride on the left wing of what today may or may not bring,sing if you want to,I do,out of tune at the moon I don't give a ****,I'm a man,so they say,I may prove that some day,I might not,I might stay the boychild,live free and live wild,pick my nose or my toes I have not yet decided,but there's time to uncover those things made to smother me,I only seek love and affection,the perfection of womanhood is what I think will do me good and it does.

She understands me,measures me in cough drops,says that I am the tops and she has the cream,she's seen me at my best and when things come to test me,she's with me,guiding,to stop me from sliding,and I love her for that and the fact that's she's gorgeous has no bearing at all.

If I fall she will chide me,once again she will guide me,I confide this to few,without her what would I do?
I'd be lost in a place where my face wouldn't fit.
I sit back to smile at her,she watches me in the chair and I love her for that,too.

It was probably in Dubai at the Hyatt when I met her
or it may have been in Dresden at the Steigenberger,
I
can't remember,

am I just dredging up old memories trying
to keep some flame alive?

but there are lots of things I don't recall
in this season of my fall
and more things still
I left unsaid

Bedrest
so the Doctor says
what a way to end my days
and then it came to me as
these things usually do
I met her down in Sussex
just outside
Drusillas zoo.

We British tend to take no notice,we just put a poultice on the sores.
In this town some back street evangelist, half religion ****** was banging on the jesus beat.
I meet his eyes which blink quite black,frontal back to total war and what's this for?
The beggar man can't understand why God with his almighty hand cant hand to him some slim hope of a reconcile,to reconcile the frown
with the riches of a smile or two but that's what beggars always do,expect what's more than what is there and want to share what they have not, is this the order of the day?
I've not a lot of hope that a poultice of green soap and sugar,however hot will do the trick,
this society is sick and medication is the order of the day.and we the slick play xylophones in the hope of finding keys to homes.
We're British and we tend to do,
what others would not ,
and would not see through
unless they're ready to and what do you the British do? but
pretend that it's not there.

Pythagoras
was
a man,not a fish,
how I wish I had never been so clever to suggest otherwise,though he swam he's a man not a fish for a dish,now I wish that the ground would swallow me whole,it wasn't my goal to be remembered for slating a national figure who knew more about figures than I ever would,
could he forgive me in some algebraic liturgy?,well maybe he should.
I mentioned him once on a radio show, though he may not have heard it,he's been dead quite a long bit, and if you've been waiting for a motion that's stating I'm right
you've a long way to go,
Pythagoras knew and now I know too it's not what you add up, it's what you add up to.

After it is done and we are spent
like cartridges,after we
began,begin,became the firing pin,became,become
again the bullets in the gun,
in and through the blackened chambers run,
we killed the sun and kissed the night,held
it tight to let it know
but it knew well that it could go
and went,after
we were done and spent.

I could have got an umbrella
from the umbrella seller
but saved my money.then found out
it's not funny
getting wet.
I
should have bought that protection
but
that's just another imperfection
in me.

Counting beads.

...and now on their way to tomorrow, today, and who is there to say
cease fire
someone will turn in to the driveway of hell and burn in eternity for these iniquitous deeds,
it's a deforestation of souls, a population control by those who have sold out to Satan,
the only freedom out there is death from the air and it comes in screaming as if it's a baby leaning into life and falling,failing,tailing off and dropping,
dead,
like the scrolls unrolled that wither away on their way to tomorrow,today,
to cry and to die without understanding why,
population education?
I'd sooner be stupid,
play cupid to the factions but
it's destruction not distraction
they want.

Moving through to dance,
I tripped and fell upon romance
with you,
and you danced the
evening through as if you
knew this dance would never end.
A dance so slow as if we
hardly moved at all,as if the
ballroom floor was ours alone,
as if we cared,
you shared with me the magic
of your ministry,it almost
finished me but the symphony you
printed on my heart made
me want to dance once more
across
the ocean of the floor
with you.

bargain hunting,
as dangerous as
hunting for socks
that match

I have the 'flu and it's Wednesday morning and my bones are groaning,but am I moaning?
YESSSS..
it's what men do when they get the 'flu and the world as they knew it comes to an end.
Please send for the medic,make it quick 'cause I am sick and while you're about it can you make me some soup.

Time to enter
time to leave,
they'll give you time to check out
time to breathe
time for this
but none of that
how to groom your dog
or cat,
rules to rule you
rules that school you
how not to spot the fools that
fool you.

Regulations
that they send
and each brings us nearer
to the end of
civilisation
as we know it,
but we're
regulated not to show it.

I'm not sure which way to vote,
something else they'll regulate?

but
undecided while I wait
I'll read the rule book.

Two cherries on the cherry tree, hung there quite enchantingly
and anyone who looked could see
that the cherries would
blush so easily
when tickled pink to think of pies
and twinkles in each others eyes.
Two cherries on a cherry tree
tasted very good to me.

Along the shoreline
cigarettes and red wine my only company,
dry seaweed as stranded as me,
and yet.
I am surrounded by the sounds of the ocean and its waves and the crashing of the shingle,my spine begins to tingle and excitement builds inside me as I rush to write some poetry,
my only company.
Tide turning,stomach churning,bridge burning,more yearning and unlearning the past as the waters recede,
and like the ocean I need that respite from the constant.
I pour one more glass knowing that this time like all time will pass and await the return.

Factoring in and tendering out..
What the hell are those things about?
I'm afraid I am lost in the costing and routeing
and..what is the price from Balham to Tooting?

But when time's out of sync
As it usually is when I've had me a drink
Or I'm pie eyed on the dope.
What's left is no hope
There is no way I can work..I might as well sleep..
..and hope time will keep its hands to itself.

But all joking aside with this modernisation there is nowhere to hide
From the tide
Or from time.

Stop whining life's ironing you flat,
we're all getting pressed and
all getting that
it's what life tends to do to you,
ironing
flattening,fattening you up for the **** and
there's no flipping thrills to be found in that.
Ironing
ironing
ironing you flat.

but

creased, I could be unleashed to become so much than more,
something with life to show, like some thing I wore with patches and scratches and marks,
Marks I adore.

Creased,
the teasing and pleasing,the
easing into the wrinkles.

'Twinkle, twinkle little star' ironed flat I'm far away from life and life can't get into my day.

Say what?
the iron's hot and bound to burn, each ironing spends a little more of uncreased out minutes and so I turn again,creased,thrown to the floor among the garbage,out the door where people stop and stare at me, the unclean,
unironed,
anomaly.

No lines,
no lines it's times like this I want to kiss the day and say,
look at me
look at me, creased to buggery and I don't care
I don't want to wear a life that's ironed flat,
don't care that you think that it's wrong,
I will wear my creases and be strong ,while you're all folded up and folded always last so long.
I'll be free and you'll be in a drawer with socks and skirts and shirts and ladies underthings,
which upon a second thought brings me to the thought that,
that might not be so bad.

Laying naked on the chaise longue
and the artist's taking so long
to get the colours mixed.
I have fixed myself a pose
looking quite good
without wearing any clothes
then Picasso starts to paint.

The lights are strong
I perspire
the artist murmurs
'I'm on fire'

and late so very late Picasso takes a break
and I can stand and stretch
I fetch a cup of water
take one crafty look behind the canvas
and I am slaughtered.
I thought this guy could paint
but that ain't me
he's painted monsters rising from a sea
with blackened eyes
and skin of verdigris.

If this guy could paint by numbers
he wouldn't get past number three.
Look at what he's done to me.
I'm getting dressed and going home.
Tomorrow
I shall have a bone
to pick with him.

A winter day
filled with colour
yet grey and damp.

The street lamp cast a shadow as bright as a moon that invaded my sleep and lit up the room where I sat,
thinking.
Of this and of that as the elderly do and a cat called loudly,proudly stating that 'Tommy' was waiting for a feline companion,
I thought on,
it all sounded grey to me,the colours of the day to me,making a *** of tea (for one) a buttered scone with some cream,I woke only to dream of the summer time,when the ruby of sunlight turned into wine and the ladies I saw looked so very fine,
until then I shall wait,
in the shadows of street lights,lighting my way through the dark nights and days that are grey,
sat on my chair,drinking my tea,eating my scone and watching the colours of life moving on.

The
trailblazers
hellraisers want to learn to fly, but first must learn to try and not begrudge the birds their wings or beaks or things.
It's each to his own and birds have flown for centuries
while man looked on quite jealously,
until
Wilbur and Orville an unlikely looking pair, built a weird looking craft that flew into the air
and there the story lies.
Man
no longer separated from the skies but flying catatonic,supersonic,chronically intoxicated by machines that he's created.

It will all come to pass that when we run out of kerosene and natural gas,
we'll recognise that flying free is but a dream and then we'll see that wings are meant for birds
and no amount of whirlygigs,tornadoes,migs can change the fact
that we were made to walk.

What then will man become
but the lengthening shadows
dancing along the edge of the sun
and when the day is done..
will it have been worthwhile
will those moments we took in the hook of the light
become more than the minutes that look into the night
or will we die
with your name on our lips?
Will you smother me in the pillows that slip through the fingers that want me to touch and you want me as much as I wanted you
Is this what the dancing of shadows will do
as they pass
do you dance with the light
did I do it all right
did it make you want to kiss me and hold me in your arms would you enfold me
would that I told you I loved you
but that's not what men do
and who is the loser
who chooses the wrong road
and the load that we bear
would not be heavy if only you were there
and where am I
where?

Top hat and tails.

Fire and ice and bison graze the land,
man's hand desiring more and more until there is no more to feed,and at such speed and still we need that more than more, so dig down deep into the core of where we live,
we give ourselves an even chance when chancing fate but fate gives us a passing look as if to say,'*******,you do what you do and expect so much,to touch the stars,dig up Mars and plunder planets'
I wonder such as gannets fly across the worn out pillaged sky where aeroplanes shave micro lines across the sheets of landing times.
It's fire and ice and desert scrub, manufacturing gin in the old bathtub and guv'nor can you spare a time when if you ever spared a dime for beggars on the city street who graze the dog ends at their feet and look in kiosks for lost coins.

It's the road we're on,no going back now,we've ******* the world and have to live somehow with ******* crops ,unfertile ground,the world keeps spinning round and round,a crazy top,can't someone please just make it stop.

And then, when men become cave dwellers
why do we expect the fellers (sic)
to do or not become much more than what the modern man once saw,
we're in the spin
we cant begin again
can't beat the acid rain
just relax and revel
in the pain.

In the library where Jaggers throws looks like daggers at Dickens for the invasion of his privacy,
for mentioning legality, I see
another story coming on.
The Maltese Falcon flies to me in pages where a mystery unfolds.

Holding breath, the long slow death of a twenty-something,
comes sliding in, Harry Potter, Slytherin.

All in books and in the looks of characters imagined by the author, chapter by chapter and at the end the wish to meet the one who penned such a magic on the pages of my mind.

He swam across an ocean to steal a concubine from a potentate,hauled himself ashore in some oil rich state.
Whitebait for sharks that roamed in the sand,fish for the cannery,what kind of a man was he?
His saving grace,her face which monitored each move he made until he reached the palace gates,
then flinging all aside he cried may God have mercy on this humble man who only tries the best he can and from the harem,a girl called Celsius ran into his arms which opened wide,time to hide ,time to run,
time to burn,the desert sun does not play games nor names the bones which bleach upon its sands.
Holding hands they stowed away on a short haul trawler out of the bay and here where fear was laid to rest
the best was yet to come.

On the Island that was known as Bermondsey
where the outlaws of the outlaw borough once roamed free and took liberties with the Nobility of the 'Liberty'
The City closed its eyes and didn't want to see the cutthroats and the harlots of old Bermondsey.

I asked, 'will you'
she said, 'I will',
and the thrill of that sound lifts me up off the ground
'til I'm floating on air,
with her.
Kissing those lips until the tingling in my toes reaches the tip of my nose and then kissing some more.

Saturday would fly in
when it's a day for a lie in,
it's like a witch on a broomstick
casting spells, and I feel sick.

I wake with a coffee and cigarette
my eyes open but I can't see a thing,
can't somebody take me to a day that would make me feel happy and gay?
and not
I repeat
not
make it a day like a Saturday.

I could of course get on a horse and ride to Huddersfield
but
I shall not yield to that temptation.
Oh no,
I will wait with her on platform three at St Pancras mainline station and catch the 15.40, (change at Leeds) or if needs must
just carry on to somewhere North of York.

When we talk we lose all sense of time and place,
I lose myself as I look into her face.
Once I almost lost my suitcase too,but that was
South of Crewe
and everything gets lost there.

He became the unknown algorithm,
a figure defined in schizophrism
all hail,
the archetype has risen
and let us go to war.

An integer slung beneath a gun
crunching bullets
watch them stun,
all hail
the archetype has come
and let us go to war.

It's Friday did you expect some peace?

Win some,lose some
read the news some and then read more
what is it that we choose win or lose it's what we get
and I bet
that charity, though is about what is received don't be deceived
by gifts galore
the people giving want even more than an equal share
but that's not fair of me
I can see and but for lack of clarity I'd see it all
if I could only stand a little taller to look at details even smaller I'd be sure of what it is I'm trying to say
but that's not going to happen any time today or tomorrow
maybe I could borrow steps and step up a notch or two
see just who and what and where you are and the reasons why you're giving for.
I can't accept if I do not know
just where the giving's come from and where it is you think it's going to go.

You'll have to tell me and really slow I'm not as young as
not so much fun as
can't run as fast as years ago
so be slow and take your time for that is all I've got
and I won't be putting back the clock to please you
do what you do
what you've always done
you've got to have some fun
and win or lose
the news is just the same
just a pain
no win or gain it's
a prying,trying,lying game.

The headlines deadleg me
peg me out
and all my doubts are reinforced by forcible editorials and pictures which from a time what seems immemorial leer at me
from page three
I can see me going round the twist at everything they tell me that I've missed
I'm pssed off now
and pssing off to 'the brown cow'
to get p*ssed.

It was blue and I knew it could not be a sea
and the waves that I saw were not people
waving to me
I
drowned in it anyway.

Seeing things in colour when the colour's not there
and it's all in the mind which is slightly unfair,
but definitely blue

and no plastic bags.

If I could swim on a whim or
a wing and a prayer and the
colour imagined
was the colour of your hair
and the waves were just curls
when you crinkle your eyes,
I'd be happier.

Making sense of some nonsense
and much of Nonsuch
touching all of the bases
is
the one-legged man
and his crutch,

they say,
'he's as mad as a hatter'
aye
and that a' can believe.

So
it's bedtime and book to
be read time,
sleepy head's having some
me time,
some time later I'll sleep.

I am one of the swans that I watch on the ice
and
being a swan is quite nice but
it's a bit of a ******* keeping my feathers fluffy and clean
and already the Winter,
I mean being a swan is quite nice
but it's a bit of a ******* when you slip on the ice and
you can't sit on your *** because your *** gets so numb.
Them ****** ugly ducklings don't make it any easier either.

The woodsman
is not always as
sharp as his
axe.

In the final selection under funeral direction
I shall lay at my rest
Hopefully dressed in my best
Because I want to look good when I'm laid out in the wood.
At my wake some of you may wonder why you came
Some of you will not even remember my name
But that's alright it's just a part of the game.
Then as the vicar says his bit and the fires are lit
I wish I could sit upright to give you a fright.
Alas I am finished and gone and soon I'll be ash
Don't worry about splitting my cash
There is none.
When I reached fifty nine I decided to have a whale of a time
I fed all my needs and paid a lot for those deeds.
And now I'm not just dead I'm broke
But oh,
I died such a happy bloke.

Would Rip van Winkle wake up to this or
go back to sleep and
give it a miss?

What would he see?
an abundance, a rag tag of poverty.
A land full of **** all with a mountain of knowalls
and a system
blocked up with
the system that's ****.

Well,
we'll give him some time to get his
head around it and
realise that the world has moved on
more than a bit, then we'll slam him
with fees,because
no one can rest as they please
in this land fit for **** all.

No one ever asked me
if I wanted to be shackled, instead of being free
no one ever asked, but decided anyway
to turn and bolt the open doors
tie me to the dusty concrete floors and work me to the bone.

No one said,you'll never own a home and if you do
we'll steal it back
and mortgage you instead,
one day we'll all be dead
'so what's the rush?' is what I said.

Brokers in the token towers endowed with powers beyond our 'ken'
and if or when they do decide to let the status quo remain
the status quo will automatically, register it as another of the same old krap
it's something else that they'll steal back.

I've got to tell you, that I'm pig sick
of make it fast and spend it quick and sod the rule of law it never did apply , to the hotshot, potbellied, suited city guy who has his eye on articles one to five and in any case will most definitely survive against the odds by burying away us poor sods in backroom books,stirred slowly into microfilm by corporate crooks who cook away as if each day a different menu was on sale.

Beyond the pale where riders sit and watch the scenes unfold, and it is foretold that judgement day will wash the wicked clean away and save the righteous.
Yes,
well don't I just believe all that
another bunch of total krap.
The pious in their pious world could not foresee that greed alone would be the fall of man..and in the fall,where man has done it all and nothing of it done remains
the register clicks on two more games to play
one tonight
and one the day to come
a bonus ball for everyone except Mario because he's on ******,you know it,I know it
the moguls in the mighty towers blow coke into their nose and they know it too.

Not a thing I want to do
should I do, would I if I could do,do?

I wonder where it's written that
we have to go there to get back
and if we go why don't we stay
one day we'll all be dead.
A thought as going ,when to bed arrived in and another trial that I survived through
one more dish of microfiche that never swam in any sea
and small as anything you see
or smaller for all that
a status bit of ***
for tat
and let the gnats and hounds of titled lords and ladies give the peasants rampant rabies, who cares but the undertakers undertaker,the sombre funeral formulator?
and I don't give a ****.

Hitting the eject
I get the hell away from here
and parachute into one more beer, a tonic at the end of a day when the shimmering heat in your eyes make you sway.
...and what would I say to another one?
I'd say, 'go on, a beer won't hurt'
the barman butts in,
but I,
being curt
ignore him and take a seat in the 'snug'
which as you may know is the one room in a pub where you can hug a pint all night long.
It is not too long and then the barman walks in with another pint of beer and a very dry gin,
he hands me the pint which I could not refuse
then settles himself down to tell me what's new in the news
and I let him sit in with his gin, and begin to think, I should not have come here, even though the beer is on draught,the barman's daft
and I get no peace
there is no release from the rigours of the day
I say to the barman,
'goodnight jack'
But I won't be back.
until I'm thirsty at sixty or sixty at six thirty..and I've enough of the alcohol stuff anyway.

Nothing suggests a protest more,
than the smashing down of one more door
and the picking up off one more floor of another fallen crown.
Smash things down
let them be rebuilt
(one more tilt at a windmill)
still
it's nice to dream.

I seem to dream an awful lot these days
cast my life away into a gaze,another one thousand yard stare
but no soldiers there just prison guards that walk around with us in our prison yard
and don't we take it hard ,when the door is smashed and we realise that what we see is just the same as it will always be,
the dumping ground
make no sound or you'll be targeted and found another place and in your place someone else will step into your prison cell.

It's nice to dream?
like hell,excuse me I don't feel so feckin well
we've all been *******,used and abused by selfish men
who promise freedom but only when and if they ever decide to decide and in the meantime hide away on south sea islands
where they play the altruist,
well it ****** me off no end and no end to this I see
no confiture for you and me
we'll have to eat the crusts of bread,dipped slowly in the bowls of gruel and how could fools like us be taken in
and fools we are for learning krap in krappy schools where education is dumbed down and more fool than that
we then went cap in hand to ask employment of the man
who lapped it up
slapped us down and paid us half a crown to make believe that we were Gods, able to buy those odds and sods and settle in for one more Winter night beside a fire that barely lit, and an outside privy where we would sit and shiver.

The only joy I ever had was poaching on Lord Sefton's private river
and who gave that fat swine the right to steal a river as if a river might be ever owned.

I moan a lot and groan a lot but never seem to have a lot
the cooking *** lays empty on the range
not strange
just the poor of days we're in.

One more grin
wipe behind my ears
pretend that I have shed no tears and go out to the tally man, to tally up and he can tell me what is due
I am the few
the many of many who haven't any
won't get much
a touch upon my shoulder,
'Excuse me sir, there seems to be a fishtail poking from your bag,come with me to jail,become one more old lag'
more than enough of them and more to come
start smashing doors let's have some fun
God knows we don't get enough.