My Caroline

 Oh my baby Caroline

G My peace and my war D Am What do you wish for Emfrom this Red Wine?A7 DTo Compare your blood to mine? [Verse 2] G What if, what if, if so your human woesGcould all amount to the indigo C D Bm EmFlowing river under the bridges of VeniceC Am EmBeneath the Gondolas' oars [Verse 3] C D G C My struggle and my torment Am C D GOh God grant me deathG C My baby Caroline, what a pity, G Dwhat a pity this love is in this cityGWhat a pity

Archers

 It's inexplicable and lickable

So spickable and spanable

So fickle and fannable 

The flicking blood of May

When lords have loved the lady's bed

And Straws are laid upon their backs

And Camels weigh the light of day

By answers grey or white or black

When young thugs hail the coming rain

When old lugs pale then face again

The Age of change for it all looks strange

To eyes without lies and truth without pain

Yet follow me and I will lead you

To the driving range

Where golf balls fly

And it's tee at Four!

And no one's rearranged

Just wait for me in the garden and climb

The Trellis late

I looked for you beside the gate

And no one shook my fate

I looked for you in the darkness

And in the corridors of light

That filled with the tears

Of long lost steers

Who wander on into the night

So take the bow and string your arrow

Fling your fire lights

The silk worms are spinning clothes for you

That glisten in the night

love times

 I loved you left, I loved you right

I loved you wrong and in your flight

I loved you day, I loved you night

There's nothing left, you're out of sight

I loved your soul, I loved your body

I cannot control, or mollycoddle

The sense your life is precious light

I loved you dark, I loved you bright

So don't leave me now

I can't bear the weight

Of sorrow

Of the pain

It is too late

To lie to you now

Of the shame

Of the shadow

But how can my love be wrong

When I love someone so good and strong?

Everything must go

 Sometimes, everything must go

The windows are rattling

As spring winds blow

Clearing out the clutter of last year in tow

Dredges from ditches of ideas that flow

Sometimes everything must go

And it's like I need to let go

Of all those fugitive pieces I stole

Shards of hearts exploded

Glass animals collected in menageries

They all got shattered

Precious though they were

They are all dust in the desert now

Everything must go

Back in the Land of the living

 I'll let you know 

If I'm still in the land of the living

I'll see you tomorrow

I've never seen a ghost

In the land of the living

I'm glad to be back in the land of the living

Glad to be the black cat and not grave digging

Glad for your life hack that kept me breathing

Glad to be back in the land of the living

 Am I really? Yes! Well why?

I guess, it's that we were born to die

And all our days are numbered

But if I thumbed a lift with Thumbelina

For a little time her trampolina

If I humbled myself at her cortina

A courtly show for a fashionista

But nothing must glow as hot and cold as

The sun we are all under

We regret to inform you

That it will not rise tomorrow

Has never crossed anyone's mind

But for the fact that she breathes

I cannot detach myself so well

I've tried to pull her out of my heart

But the seed was planted, love kick started

And now it's banished by her rule

I fell apart for a bit, not sure if I'm

Together again, just yet

It's just a letter I write from the base of wall

Which I fell off last night

It was just my pride that's hurt, I'll bet

I'm back in the land of the living

And I'm trying to live without regret

The body snatchers

 Moving the mannequins

How do we carry them?

How can the body be spare?

Nobodies, everybody nowhere

Nothing to wear, no hair, no air

But graceful poises, not making noises

Standing so silently, spare

In use or out of it, in storage in the cupboard

Up in the attic

Wholly vacant like some static

The status quo of not moving at all

All hail human existence

Looking in the mirror at the dummy

The numb, dumb country bumpkin

The straw man, scarecrow

Worzel Gummidge figure

Come in to transfigure the interior design

Portfolio of foliage

Caught a cold you know like Coleridge

Walking out in the snow and storm like Keats

Cathy come home staring out the window

For Heathcliff

On the cold moors, the dale

That separates our homes

Mechanical walking of limbs

Legs and spare arms carried

As if by medical students to the 

Dissecting theatre

The autopsy of the dead relative begins

Where is she now?

Where is her soul, I can't find it

In her model's eyes

What do I want with her body?

With her imperialist grey skies

That have dominated me

From sunrise to moonrise

The set order of a regimen of lies

To get me down the endless catwalk of Winter

Into Spring

Looking in shop window reflections

To make sure I still exist

And have not been turned into

Yet another of her mannequins

On her archived list 

Forty something

 I'm over forty

I've got Dr Wolff at my door

Howling out he's got a cure

For my grey hair

I'm over forty

Now I'm a victim of time and fate

If I wasn't before

Well now there's no time to wait

You see my father was over forty

Before I turned naughty

You see he is behind a bullet proof glass plate

And history always comes to those too late

They tell me to inject caffeine in my pores

They tell me to believe in the male menopause

Well I believe, I have no cause, it goes

The same with Santa Clause

But I don't remember anyone getting on his case

About his over rosy cheeks, rotund belly

Or beardy white fakes

Why didn't he ever use Just for Men?

I suppose they wouldn't trust any dark haired strangers

Coming undercover down chimney ranges

Probably would have burnt him in the grate

Than suffer the indignity of a milk tray lover

Whose cover's blown as is his sperm count of late

But as I say I'm an over forty victim of fate

I'm an over forty son of

A man who's over eighty

Who's father never run the clock so late

But you can't say I've begun to hate

I still feel love could come by my gate

And we'd meet

At number 28b

 or not 28B

Two score and twenty four blackbirds

Baked in a pie,

on Pigeon street

And don't be late