A holiday in West Wales.




A week away from the rainbow,
the hustle and the tussle,
of a giro city where everything is for sale
and no one has any money.

Arriving at a small cottage,
in terrace land,
sweet earth's hand,
the sun shines on the righteous,
us to, to you blue,
in the old fisherman's cottage,
that'd gone the way of the fish.

Oh to be a fisherman on the salty sea,
bringing home the bacon for the Friday tea.

The local pub had a bar,
made of concrete stones,
painted brown;
they'd gone on to paint,
the oak paneling
and the girls sang songs.

Back to a mood fire,
and lit the TV lyre,
with a bottle of wine,
we got for feeding Adam's cats,
ride your pony here.

Of Hal made late by the tennis,
bonk bonk,
another summer drifts through,
the Menia straits,
the better part of valour is discretion.

A small town Lion hotel pub,
far from the fisherman's ready rub,
a touch of Duffy,
tables like empty shops,
what's the Welsh for the curse of the dole?
poetry is free,
but it can't hold back the sea.

Trainspotting is going to open the games,
lottsa guns and paranoia,
the fruit machine goes yea,
I bet Cameron's got a one inch dick,
from the cradle to the grave,
through the empty factory rave,
they shot the boy dead,
for dreaming in his head,
so they set the streets on fire.

Love is a revolution thing,
so the last pub choir did sing,
the Welsh dragon is red,
just another Don Quixote,
looking for a role,
fresh baked bread is whole.

This house is like icing,
on a currant cake,
small like a space ship
and full of dreams.

Wakestock looking beautiful
and tired, wanders in its;
muddy duke of wellies,
leaving good brown earth all over Pwllheli,
as if cattle had been driven through the town,
festival fodder for some rich, bigoted festival boss
and his sixth new Rolls Royce.

Plas yn Rhiw,
the National Trust,
as a bible belt bust,
the girls friendly and diolch,
an old grandfather clock,
do not touch,
and all the time of the Keating sisters,
as we pay the bill,
from the giro till
and make a sweater,
from the spinning wheel.

To good to hurry,
captain Murray,
broke down in tears,
all our fears,
look after our people.

Down to Aberdaron,
old grumpy RS bless,
Thomas is a good name for a Welsh poet,
take note,
time thieves the stanzas,
listen to what the bard says,
all you need is love,
preaching with fire
and a mechanical lyre,
all you need is love.

The quiet boys at the bar,
chatting up the barmaid,
as pretty as a sea flower,
buying the story of the poets,
life in Aberdaron,
to forget his poetry,
which I can't remember.

Drizzle down Caernarvon,
on a grey sea crab day,
met a Spanish anarchist,
who fled from torturous Franco,
put the bread in the toaster,
turn the roast on the spit,
the brave International Welshman,
looks for a new quiver kit,
to many names on the village memorial,
of capitalism is not democracy
and you never know the hour,
when the storm wall comes crashing down,
when the King loses his crown.

Dance 'till the lager runs out,
the roaring boys learn to shout,
only a Welsh mother,
keeps clean linen tablecloths.

They're wasting money on the arts,
so says someone on radio 4,
do you love the poor?
freshly baked jam tarts.

The sun came out at Porthdinllaen,
for joy is no crime,
as young families and barley beer,
a hole in one and a lover's tear,
the Ty Coch Inn,
where the only Tories in Wales,
eat fresh crab an' stuff,
hurl a brick through a jewelers' window,
set fire to M and S,
this wine is piss,
tell me Mr. Crow which way does the wind blow?

A swallows and amazons holiday,
the prisoners are shot behind the headland,
a dog sniffs another dogs ass,
lottsa love and class,
the twinkling of cut glass,
the first sea village to be lost to global warming,
no more horse chestnuts, no more Christmas,
licking the cake bowl
and all that bliss.

The annual pilgrimage over,
reading that things were collapsing
and feeling much better,
the only fun the English get,
is taking the piss out of each other,
the real use of freedom of speech.

The annual Porthdinllaen stick race,
I put a castor on the end of mine.

A trip across the Menia Straits,
don't be late,
as fun as it gets,
never wet
and home in time for tea,
tomorrow it's the people's early sixties,
concrete beach cafe in Criccieth.

The Wrexham lager beer Co Ltd,
founded 1882,
closed,
another casualty of blessed Margaret,
laissez faire as fit as a squashed hamster,
to run the world,
things I've heard.

There is only one pool cue,
I prefer American pool,
just a little bit more cool,
in its football colours
and its endless hope,
the right to bare arms,
in the Republic of mace,
all that wide open space,
come on our kid,
let's go score a lid.

The quiet joy of the patient mantlepiece,
such is Wales,
as merry as the dales,
rain opened the day we went to Bangor.

The girls in Asda sufficient,
to the Welsh language hidden,
behind the English,
in a November of Wall Marts,
set on destroying the planet.

Extra soldiers at the 'limpicks,
have been told to shoot to kill,
anyone who is eating a big mac,
or drinking a coca cola,
the high roller that lost the bet,
they just keep on diggin' yet,
that slow increase of fear,
as if we are at war,
the legions of the poor,
friends of Mr. Kalashnikov;
have your bread and circuses,
you've paid for them
and then,
the black clenched fist,
the manacle on the wrist,
all manner of things will be well,
the crackin' of the bell.

As another crystal shop opens
and black cats are run over,
a dog called Rover.

Did you get a place in the Zill cane,
are your dreams profane?
always the rain,
I hope someone gets through,
it will give us all something to cheer about.

The English are to shoot badgers,
the Welsh to vaccinate,
facilitate the dream,
the Welsh flag is green.

~