Early Birds

You have to be an early cat
To catch the early bird
The gold falls from the sky
I can't catch it
The morning is golden
So is your memory
But you gave away your gold
You little canary
It is flown like the sky lark
The pirates have smuggled it
Now they've taken you to their island
Where you will lie with them
Their giant cat claws have lain on your breast
Where your heart beats fast
With the bold and the best
But bird kind cannot manage another like you
So they leave you to the pirates
And their drunken cat curfew

It takes an early bird to catch a worm
And it takes a bin full of promises
Before I can learn
That the ring that I gave you
Was yours to burn
And the Gold that you gave me
Was never mine in turn

To be continued

A large part of diversifying accrued agreement rests solely on the shoulders of giants. It is not that giant’s shoulders are literally any more satisfying to rest on than an ordinary man or woman’s shoulders – Giants can be the most quarrelsome and loathsome of creatures, whose habit it is to eat farm yard animals and anyone smaller than themselves – no the real advantage is their broad shoulderlieness. I say this as one who knows

Do you like Techno?

When you finally realize

You've been talking to a white supremacist

And they call you a woman just to mask their cowardice

And they tell you its alright its not the tone

Of the skin

Its the ideology they have a problem with

Not the race thing

You realize they are a racist

A nutter, a fraud

That they are this brand of "English abroad"

Who think they have the right

To say what they like

because they live in

A country that is free from wrong or right

That they are just saying what everyone feels

That they have the upper hand on the

Unconscious subs meals

That they should be valued

Along with the rest

That they are the victims

Of all this unrest

That Muslims and Jews are a scourge on the land

And if they had their way they would wipe their hands

With all the unclean

The un-pure bred

Well just point out

They have something missing from inside their head

They have missed that they are the cowards

They think they are warriors

But they are brow beaten, brown-nosers

They are small little fish

Flailing in the mud

Their time is up

Their oxygen is sucked

They have little left to sustain a

dying life

They are ancient remnants

They must be consigned

To the rubbish bin of life

And if anyone asks you do you

Like techno?

Just respond firmly

No I do not

And walk away from the party because

It is shit

And they all need their heads examined

For dancing to it

out-foxed

a fox kept in a box
Is like to get the pox
But a fox without her socks
May tread on sharp jagged rocks

So, think outside the box
but inside the fox
Then a thought that can cause shocks
Will be more like one that unlocks

Unfortunately I seem to have

Unfortunately I seem to have lost my socks
They have run down the drain
They have been swallowed by the vain rain
That falls on all these dry rocks

Unfortunately I seem to have lost my slippers
They seem to have been collected by the bin men
Who have taken them and rolled them in bitumen
For not they are rolled out like kippers

Unfortunately I seem to have lost my braces
They have been over run by snails
I left them in the garden next to the rails
And evidently the snails used them for their races

Unfortunately I seem to have lost my sense of timing
I do not know who took it maybe the raven
He took it on the wing when I was craven
And now I am braver, but the bell is chiming

Butterfly, butterfly

Butterfly, butterfly down on the ground,

Like a flower makes no sound

Butterfly, butterfly up in the air

Butterfly is the flower of the sky

Float away Butterfly

Fly in the breeze

Let the wind carry you over the trees

Or stay down here close to the ground

I’ll keep you with the other flowers I’ve found

Blood of the Land

The greens run out of the fields and

I can’t leave them behind

It is like I have green blood in my body

And it bleeds out in green tears when I cry

Yes, it is in the eye of the beholder

Yes, it is stuck in the throat

Yes, it is one lump of sugar

That you roll in your mouth until it floats

And somewhere between the saccharine spit

And the honey dewed flowers

There is a taste of England’s southern lands

That blooms up in olfactory towers

Is it some manufactured scene?

Some garlanded pound-land?

No, for I have seen it in my dreams

and chased it with the hounds and

Left it there behind the glass

behind the window,

As the train rolls past

It is in these salty tears, these salty dry skies

That never cry

Or look as though they never do

But always change when you don’t want them to

It is in the sound of the voice’s twang

Over the intercom

Onto the land and down the hall

Hearing the dead station’s silent call

From times past

Or perhaps

It is just that I know its history and it is a part of my own

Through osmosis

Adopted, but felt in the body

Like the green blood