My mum thinks we need a Tory government,
so we'd know these are the good times.




I went to a land very blue,
friendly and giving but nothing to do,
as I went round the artists stages.

Americans and Japanese,
a thanks from China,
for casting a seed,
who does feed poets?
fairy dreams my friend.

A merry dance,
at world's end.

My mate was in the market,
after I'd data hoovered it dry,
a warm salt pasty shared,
two cocks did cry.

He was as crusted dirt black as sin,
fitter than Falstaff,
apple merry as well.

All the tourists as white as hell,
over seventy as the sweet girl,
go on lover give us a twirl.

A new traveller arrived,
with his home on his back,
carried his boxer dogs crap,
in a plastic bag.

A good citizen,
love does not lack.

As he passed the top hatted charmer,
I thought of Bill Sykes and Dickens,
a workhouse for all us chickens.

Going into the church,
a gentle word,
a new roof,
I told the young Polish lovers,
here the babies tooth.

A great rusty tin shack,
that only the RSC could see as beauty,
the king has no clothes
and the Swan is not fit for purpose,
for where is the summers open air free stage?

All around you my friend,
this costumed dream,
of a poets rage.

Capital C tinsel town,
as sad as frown,
forgive me I am not a clown.

The moon and stars my gown.

William Shakespeare,
who'd weep to try,
for all he would write,
whistling newborn.

torn torn
and tossed

What small poetic cruises are invented for,
Stratford upon the Avon.

Making Coventry, Nuneaton and the Stratford road,
seem like heaven.

You've never had it so good said Robin Hood.

And the poor stalls started to throw rotten cabbages,
at the rolling bones,
demanding their culture back,
from this vulture sack.

A naked middle aged man climbs up a rope in Dam Square,
five thousand tourists wander off for some kiff
and I'm tired of this riff.

The thought police might call
and the scarlet petals at the who dares wins,
dreamed of more for kith and kins.

The fire dragons are loosed,
a juggler mounts the spinning ball.

~