A Pretty Kettle of Poetry

Pouring out this year’s Xmas Special
lifting up glasses to read this year’s nominations
in rhyming alphabetical order
Let’s do the do, you the you.

The list was too long
so let’s cut to the quick.
Pour that Xmas Special, Norm
and we’ll write the list in no time, give us me specs.

The family, the friends.
The Christmases past that forever send
Chistmas cards to old addresses
haunted by coloured paper crowned faces.

Raise your glasses to Christmas present and future.
What does that say? Oh, does it matter?
So pass that Xmas Special, Norm.
It always went down a storm.

Clock hands jump hours like feet.
No one keeps up with time flying.
Buskers grab pennies dropping
and I’m just wondering whying.

Fall asleep and wake up to another day
cos that’s the beauty of being here.
Just hoping tomorrow will stay
long enough to keep hearts beating, very dear.

Been on holiday and away from work
which is what it’s all about, dying for retirement.
Who doesn’t wish their life away
and then ask where it all went?

Don’t feel part of this world.
Light a fag and swirl off into space and swirling smoke.
Nah, can’t be bothered
but got a psychedelic wheel when an angel spoke.

Don’t ever doubt my love for you.
Sing those romantic songs cos I wrote them.
Broke down for you, felt them from the heart.
Every flower, every stem.

Troubles come and troubles go.
People come and people go.
In moments when all seems lost and stands still,
I’ll love you and always will.

That was quite a kiss
that would last decades
under a night sky no one could miss
unless blind or so unromantic it fades.

How a heart gets bloody.
How the anatomy of cruelty rules.
How someone can see
and then change into a leader of fools.

Your name was on my lips,
now a name in infamy.
When the tipping point tips
love flies off into the foreground of history.

So, we got into scrapes.
Arguments that weren’t even worth discussing.
If we had an ounce of sense,
we would have let it lie from birth.

We made sure we were different.
At loggerheads for the sake of it.
What happened baby? Being stubborn?
Or just well into it?

So, I’ll carry on drinking.
Carry on thinking.
Making obvious rhymes.
Playing innocent to obvious crimes.

You do what you do.
You have a few little offences to answer to, too.
See you in court.
Love you and sort of glad we lost what we fought for.

They came in with the tide, from a shipwreck and an old seadog’s cry:
So ingrained, they became grains of sand by and by.
Hidden in an hourglass, so sky-high
they got lost back in time, my oh my.

An exotic head with a black glass-eye
was buried so deep any tear would dry
before it had a chance to testify
and shatter the truth before prying eyes would pry.

There are lots of moments you should have been there.
Moments we would have laughed about something someone said or did.
Some place that would have been to share
Or, if not, to be told where it was hid.

Now, nostalgia is very easy to print and bind or download and save that very day.
Moments the brain’s lowly-paid librarian catalogues away
whether right or not, by choice, or unfair.
There are lots of moments you should have been there.

All records had been broken.
Anyone who had ever sung or played was to be forgotten.
Police enquiries and sleeve notes had shown their muscle and brawn.
No more copyright rights. Any artistic spirit would be released to the state born.