Almost Back To My Old Self
Every day, every year.
Almost back to my old self.
Every wine, every beer.
Almost back to my old self.
Every word, every verse.
Almost back to my old self.
Every last, every first.
Almost back to my old self.
Every lyric, every song.
Almost back to my old self.
Every right, every wrong.
Almost back to my old self.
Every love, every friend.
Almost back to my old self.
Every start, every end.
Almost back to my old self.
Every photo, every print.
Almost back to my old self.
Every colour, every tint.
Almost back to my old self.
Every costume, every cue.
Almost back to my old self.
Should they repeat me on BBC 2
You’ll see me back to my old self.
When Dead People See You
Do they look down on you?
See what you do?
Know what you think?
Sit there and blink?
We all want them to.
Die and start anew.
Be up there, looking down.
Every one of ‘em safe‘n’sound.
But I can’t see it myself
Though I drink to their health.
If life is full of disappointments
Why should the greatest hope of all bring fulfilment?
Her Necklaces
She wears purple and pearl
Emerald green; a girl
Who hangs with the world
Wrapped round her neck.
Years after she was born
In her will she’s sworn
Never to compromise or pawn
The weight round her neck.
As the accused play for sympathy
And the victim acts guiltily
Her matchmaker stares critically
At the stones round her neck.
Man in the Past
Modern jets couldn’t beat wartime planes overhead
With engine-stomachs rumbling
And the latest line in wonder-bras
Had no charm like 18th century corset-fumbling.
Being hung, drawn and quartered for heresy or treason
Best fitted any crime than a spell in the slammer
And a set of stocks and tossing tomatoes
Bettered patience and understanding for those with a stammer.
Advances in medicine were centuries behind
Leeches and amputations with screams
And Sky and the like and Satellite
Were another planet to black’n’white screens.
Fresh-out-of-the-showroom gleaming models
Weren’t as good as an Austin Seven or Morris Minor
And nothing sank like a Mary Rose
Or the greatest 20th century liner.
Football’s heyday was decades ago
With Best, Clough, and Shankly and Leeds all in white
And videos and C.D.s promoting new pop stars
Just proved his point that they were all shite.
Even in love, and anyone he dated
His latest ex had something more.
Waking up to another day
He never quite looked like he had done before.
Comedy of Errors
Dumb entertainment, miming
We fluff our lines with perfect timing.
Injustice is fair for rich and poor.
If the Queen doesn’t clap, heads will fall.
Like two jesters out of favour
Except with each other
The courtiers in the court
Add us up to nought.
So, as farcical suitors fall about
To a regal slap-stick clout
On stage, we can’t have a laugh
Having lost our better half.
Who Needs A Title?
Whatever I do isn’t my fault.
I wasn’t hyperactive as a kid, but I am as an adult.
Please come around whenever you want.
I can write you anything in any font.
I’m falling in love, falling for you.
What makes me happy is whatever you do.
I just have to weigh things up
And I just have; I don’t half like you.
You’re my queen and I’m your king.
With sexual equality, it don’t mean a thing.
These days, men and women are all aristocracy
At least for weddings and beheadings, and ceremonies on one knee.
Black’n’White Flag
This life is doing me no good.
I’m getting more and more bitter.
If I were me I would,
So I give up. I’m no quitter.
A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 