Friday, 27 May 2016

How To Deal With The Inner Child

Just imagine that your inner child's called Jade,
And she's got a voice like a braying donkey,
And an accent that's so broad that you feel afraid
You must look really fat, whenever she starts speaking.
Just imagine that your inner child is dead common
And not very bright.
And when she starts seeking attention,
You know she's bound to show you up
Because she's absolutely desperate to mention
All the things you do that don't really seem very nice, 
In the light of day,
(Though you could justify them to yourself privately.)
Just imagine that she's not quite right,
She has no sensitivity, 
She tends to waddle and has one sock that will never stay up.
Just imagine she's always a bit snotty,
That she wets the bed
And smells of pee,
But never has a shower.

Just imagine your inner child, is not some creative,
Ethereal, angelic, lovely, golden girl,
Not some Elysian flower
Or sugar and spice,
All kind and clever,
Not some exquisite, rare pearl,
But, instead, 
That she's very much like the small, fat, grotty
Creature you actually used to be.
Then ground her forever.

Sunday, 15 May 2016

The Dumbing Down of Death

When I am gone
Think only this of me,
I did not die
Because I longed to lie
In silence where I couldn't hear
You reading poetry.
Crying, stumbling, sobbing, taking care,
It's all as bad,
Though man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live,
And is full of misery,
Don't make it worse, 
I did not love the works of Edward Lear,
More than the language of the Book of Common Prayer,
So don't read verse.

Friday, 13 May 2016

Never Buy A Second Hand Carpet From "Fluffy Chops"

Never buy a second hand, Persian rug,
From a woman with the user name 'Fluffy Chops,'
You might think it better, and feel smug
About buying a carpet
From a fellow English woman,
Because all those oriental shops
Seem rather a rip off.
But honestly, if you turn up at the door
And see a notice saying,
'Before you report my manky looking Persian cat to the RSPCA
Here are a few things to bear in mind...'
Then you should scarper, because you will find,
Kitty's not the only mangy Iranian.
The rather pretty looking old Nain,
You saw on ebay was only attractive
Because you didn't know,
Anyone would stoop so low
As to sell,
Something with that cheesy, doggy, catty smell.
And your house will never be the same again,
Even though it's rather fragrant already
What with the scent of incontinent pets of your own,
And those certain places that remind you of that last time at the vets,
And the corpses where your poor old friends had laid,
All night, dead, uncured, and gently leaking,
Despite the thousands of pounds you had paid.
When buying second hand carpet, you wish your animals to be alone
In their vile habits,
And you don't wish to confront the possibility of other people keeping house rabbits,
Or to have to give a name,in your head,
To that vivid yellow stain,
Pretend it is there by design, instead.
And it's no good seeking
Compensation, caveat emptor and all that,
EBay isn't the shops,
If you don't like odour of cat
Then strictly speaking,
You were mad to buy anything from 'Fluffy Chops.'

Sunday, 8 May 2016

To Rupa Huq, MP (Labour) An Apolgy For Past Wrongs

(last year she wanted Britain to apologise for the creation of the state of Israel)

Just less than three score years ago, and ten,
In arrogance of recent victory,
So flushed with pride and clear in our certainty
We saw a way to help our fellow men,
And 'put right' history.

We thought our role, was helping those
Who wished to live according to their faith,
To worship God according to tradition,
Not merely as a private act, but in the institution
Of a state, a separate nation.

We thought it wise and right to help men live
According to particular belief,
In acknowledgement of ideas 
Such men considered holy
That is God's word and His instruction.

We sought, in pride, to help create a place,
Which separated men from one another,
Like sheep from goats, accepting of the notion
That ideals of how to live 
Were bound up with religion. 

These men themselves had long expressed this need
And in misplaced compassion we agreed.
For after all men suffer persecution
For belief. And persecution was, for some, all they had known.
And who were we, who knew Christ's suffering,
To deny a place of safety unto them
That wished for some small corner of this earth
To be a place to call their own?

Yet who were we?
Was it up to us to grant the wishes of our fellows?
Is it right to intercede in any territorial fight,
Cause retributive genocide, displacement, mass migration?
And carve up countries into separate jurisdictions
Because certain kinds of men seek domination?
Weren't we deluded in our aims? 
How could we, mired as we were in ancient wrongs,
Help put things right?

Was it in our power at all to say
This land belongs to one who worships in this way,
And none must seek to question 
The validity of this high handed action?

And now, do all those who dwell within this sovereign nation,
Live in freedom and as equals?
Has intolerance become an unknown notion?
Is it a patch of earth where there's no persecution?
Do all men live at liberty, in this land,
To express their freely held convictions?
While governed by such men as understand,
That truth and peace flow from consideration
Of the struggle each man has to live life well?
Is there absolute contentment in the total population?
Can we say, with hindsight, we were right to plan
This violent, troubled nation: Pakistan?

Wednesday, 4 May 2016

On The Consequences Of A Surfeit of Right Wing, Online Editions

I want to read something that will make me truly mad,
I love that outraged feeling when I'm justifiably furious,
And there's nothing in the Mail Online that's really all that bad,
I feel no indignation, I don't even feel curious.
So I look again at Breitbart, but I'm getting quite inured
To the actions of those immigrants, so I still feel rather bored.
Then I click on The Spectator, pin all hope on Douglas Murray,
But there's nought by him to stir me up, so then I start to worry,
That I really am immune to quite how vile the world is now,
And that I want it to be viler: I'm a nasty, mad, old cow.