Blog from the Bog

I am in a robot Armageddon
And the time traveller is dust
Its a case of man against steel
What you feel is real rust

What you make for a meal
Is grist to their mill
And they'll challenge your will
Provide a no deal
And implant a chip in your soul

And a robot is what?
Just a chip off the old block
Just chip on the shoulder of giants
Its one giant leap for an ant
But a drone bee is a giant step for a man

What can he swallow, what kind of pill
Can make him sleep for a thousand years
And wake up when its time to kill

And Time is killing man
But man is killing time
With his machines and devices
To serve all his vices
And even turn all his water to wine

What kind of veal can stake a claim to his calf
The meat lies on the road for the foxes
And upturned is the apple cart

How many apples have fallen before a law is made
To put Pandora's prizes back in their boxes
To turn the white beam into shade?

The dogs are howling at the moon
As the man returns to his home
Babies are crying for the womb
And the woman is sleeping alone

Man is creating his Eden
Down the street where the dog chews a bone
But who is loyal to his master
Will turn tail like an unwanted drone

Man is creating his Eden
In the bowels of a dying mother Earth
And she's spilled her guts, suffered all his cuts
From the moment that she gave birth

Some crone can read it in her entrails
Some drone will build a society of worth
But the hive mind that finds
All of human kind, can never buy back
The price of its curse

Cock and Bull Story

All the clocks have stopped
And the cardinals walk
Upon the court of the cock
And the Bull that talks
And we can't shut up the shop
Nor lock up the criminals who balk
At all the broken cups
That they drink from or tap with a fork

I thought you said you loved me
She said from behind the bars
But I was serving pastries
To pasty faced movie stars
And she was cleaning their apartments
And refilling their cars
As we talked of Hollywood departments
And walked down their boulevards

I thought you said you loved the silver screen display
That was better than make believe
Better than man made of clay
Even God appears there shifting behind the scenes
He's in the prison of the camera
That we capture and hold in our dreams

Jesus is failing as an extra,
he's been to two auditions
But the terminator director
Won't even cast him in an impossible mission
He's left kicking rocks in the parking lot
Collecting tips for parking actors' cars
Who once thought they'd seen him in a musical
Where he played some superstar

I faced into the distance,
And shook my fist at the storm
And said why must it end like this?
Oh lord I am tired of feeling so worn

And cursing the apocalypse
The Zombie actors come out on parade
They've heard there was a calypso line
For eclipsed actors who never get paid

And sure enough they all turned up
On set the very next day
They'd lost a lot of their make up
And their hair was turning grey

So they stepped back inside the prison
And the camera took off fifty years
They said now we look good by comparison
To the summation of all our fears

Suddenly from the distance a footballer turned up
Dribbling his ball, through all the holes
As if at the Ryder cup
Someone said its  Schumacher another it was Lewis Hamilton
But I knew for sure by his quick draw
That I was looking at Harrison ford
Jack Nicholson, took for advantage
A cake from the jaws of a lion
And shaking his mane, he said with some shame
That he wished he were Jenson Button

The flying ducks were caught out over the ninth hole
And eight weeks later, a great alligator
Was shot on the white House Lawn
A fishing he had been in Florida
A concertina kissed
The clouds they part, for those departed
On the rise of the steamy knoll

If anyone can control him
Perhaps his uncle should know
About all the conflagrations burning up in his soul
And if one artist, could talk to a skull
What would be said, from inside that head
And the reasons for the role call?

Similar if not for Schwarzenegger the whole
cast would have gone berserk
With unexpected losses, and time spent off work
And perhaps if their forefathers had known them
They would have signed a farewell to arms
But with the heroes going down to zero
Nobody is falling for their charms

And what if anything can be answered by
The legend of the gun-touting fool?
You've got to stick it to the man
Who made you in his image as his tool