James the sword.
 
 
 
 
Neil was his name,
well to the game, 
he cared gently
and loved with hope,
sired a football team,
fed the cats with cream. 
 
Finally he took the stage,
it consumed his rage,
for dancing with sharp steel,
hope was granted , for his giro wheel.
 
I last saw him,
smiling at me with a peace sign,
on the ghostly goldfish bowl,
nearly of the dole,
at fayre Glastonbury.
 
But see,
though this stage was set,
for yet,
as whole as he could be,
fighting for kith and kin,
on Wembley's last days.
 
His fellows sword broke,
he was wounded,
so what to do?
 
He waited till curtain down,
but his time had run and run, 
blood on the boards,
an accident my friend,
that this end.
 
 
We buried him at Curdworth church,
it was packed like the Globe,
horses as well,
the boots turned round in the grip, 
beautiful gentle and hip.
 
For Wembley had cut down this tree,
what of his widow, orphans more than three?
 
nothing nothing nothing
 
 
Their is a justice in it,
the 3 little lions come to the Midlands, 
look after each other,
look after yourselves.
 
Love does as love must,
love should not hurt as this,
please feed his cats
and mend the dish.
 
I say to you well,
it is wise to care, 
for not every fall,
do the trees have pear.

~