394 – Donald McRonald

Poem number 394
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Donald McRonald
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A rictus smile etched out in red
Beneath the perm his eyes are dead
His brother Ronald grins with glee
But Donald’s not quite right, you see
He isn’t kind or gentle, sweet
Is not the word – he’s incomplete
A fragment of his mind is gone
And whilst dear Ron smiles on and on
Dear Donald, well he likes to kill
Small animals, then drink his fill
Of blood, he decorates his flat
With lemur femurs, strangled cats
His painted grin so wide, so fun
Belies a soul that’s over-run
With doubt, confusion, endless pain
A clown that lives in pouring rain
A clown with psychopathic dreams
And painted, rictus silent scream.

395 – Welcome To November

Poem number 395
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Welcome to November
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The sky as grey as old men’s pants
The urine tinted rain
The floods along the pavement from the overflowing drain
A fart of wind, a drizzle shart, dead leaves as brown as poo
Welcome to November, how those summer months just flew.
.
That summer’s dead and mouldy now
A stake rammed through one eye
In a coffin made of rotting wood and filled with buzzsaw flies
As dead as Charlie Chaplin and as cold as severed teeth
Welcome to November, Summer’s buried underneath.
.
Put on your leaking wellingtons
Your hat that’s come unstitched
Wrap yourself in itchy fleece, this wintertime’s a bitch.
It’s raining now but snow will come, with frost that steals your breath
Welcome to November, home of misery and death.

396 – 1492

Poem number 396
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1492
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In the year of 1492
Columbus sailed the ocean blue
He found a land with no one there
(Except for Natives everywhere)
He went ashore with nails and planks
And built a country for the Yanks
Those Yanks did prosper, year on year
And now they rule the world, I fear –
I wish in 1492
When C had sailed the ocean blue
He’d seen that land so clean and vast
But lost his nerve, and sailed right past.

397 – Bathtime Dreams

Poem Number 397
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Bathtime Dreams
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Dr No sat in the bath, his rubber duck in hand
And dreamed of secret islands, empires, ruling over land,
He dreamed of plots so dastardly that goverments would fall
To their knees and beg for mercy, lest he subjugate them all.
He dreamed of evil henchman dressed in boiler suits with zips,
All pulling pistol-lasers from the holsters on their hips.
He dreamed of secret agents sent to foil some evil plot
And of how he’d tell them everything, and not just have them shot.
All this he dreamed, and plenty more whilst sitting in his bath –
A thousand evil plans and schemes along his evil path
But then hark! A noise! It’s footsteps! Heading swiftly through his lair!
His dreams are cast aside, he shakes the bubbles from his hair
Is this it? Is this his end? They’re coming through the door…
… It’s his mother, come to dry him. Dr No is only four.

398 – An Englishman’s Sausage Is His Castle

Poem number 398
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An Englishman’s Sausage Is His Castle
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They took away my cigarettes, they said they’d make me die
They took away the cow-brains from my steak and offal pie
They took away my extra salt, my sugar and my fat
And now they want my sausages, but I’m not having that –
I’m not giving up my bratwurst or my English pork and leek
I’m not giving them my Cumberland, it’s just a bloody cheek
They won’t take my chipolata
That idea’s a big non starter
I’ll just eat an extra dozen every week!
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They can point their learned fingers at the writing on the wall
They can show me their statistics, they don’t bother me at all
For a sausage is a holy thing, not dangerous or wrong
So I’ll keep the faith and keep on eating bangers all day long
I don’t care if they are gourmet, meadow fed young British Lamb
Or cheap and cheerful tiny tubes filled up with processed ham
If it’s sausage it’s ok
And I’ll eat three packs a day
And I’ll treat all those statistics as a sham.
.
Those doctors think they’re helpful but they’re interfering shites
Who cares what decent working folk like scoffing every night?
It’s the right of every Englishman to eat until he’s ill
Cholesterol and sausages? Go on man – take your fill!
They can take their colon cancer and just stick it up their arse
Along with all those arteries so clogged that blood wont pass
‘Cause my death is guaranteed
No matter how I choose to feed
So I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

400 – The Gulls Are White Supremacists

Poem number 400
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The Gulls Are White Supremacists
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The gulls are white supremacists
A biker gang swarming in from an empty sky, a blizzard of noise.
The bread is gone. Obliterated before it even hits the water.
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The gulls are white supremacists
Shoulder barges and iron wings, war-cries and triumphant screams.
The ducks below. Cowering, awaiting food parcels under a Luftwaffe sky.
Snapping beaks at empty ripples.
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The gulls are white supremacists
Even the swans, playground bullies, now hide at the back of the dinner queue
Eyes lowered. Necks coiled and wings withdrawn to make a smaller target.
Cowed by boys from the year above.
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The gulls are white supremacists
The bread is theirs and theirs alone.
Squawking with disdain they vanish as quickly as they appeared.
The sky is silent once more save for fading, violent echoes.
And the ducks are still hungry.
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The gulls are white supremacists
But they’re not immune to poisoned bread, and now there comes the sound of distant splashes.
Aircraft ditching in the sea.
Tomorrow the ducks will feast.
And the swans.

401 – Nobody Here But Us Chickens

Poem number 401
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Nobody Here But Us Chickens
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There’s nobody here but us chickens
So put all your sci-fi to bed
No Kirk or Picard
No Jedi, it’s hard
To accept but that fantasy’s dead.
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There’s nobody here but us chickens
Not even a knackered old droid
Beyond the odd rock
And an astronaut’s sock
You’ll find only a bottomless void.
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There’s nobody here but us chickens
This aliens thing is a con
It may seem unfair
That there’s nobody there
But accept it, nod sagely, move on.
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There’s nobody here but us chickens
So now I feel bound to declare
Your planet is mine
You gullible swine
And so is that moon over there!

402 – The Unread Book

Poem number 402
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The Unread Book
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His heart was rented out, it seems
Though he had thought it sold.
Just childish loves and childish dreams
No comfort to the old.
He lies there now in silence
Single sheets, an early night
His body wrought with violence
And the fading of the light.
His hand so lined, an unread page
Unheld, upon the bed.
No one to hold it in old age
And no one now he’s dead.

403 – The Ballad Of Norman Greysmith

Poem number 403
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The Ballad Of Norman Greysmith
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My daddy bought an elephant
And housed it in the shed.
On weekdays it had peanuts
And on Sundays it had bread.
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He called it Norman Greysmith
And he read to it at night
From the Beano Christmas Annual
And the Usborne Book Of Flight.
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In the daytime while my daddy worked
Our elephant would roam
Like a guard dog round the cul-de-sac
Protecting every home
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He sat on several burglars
And he trunk-swiped several more
‘Til the local crooks decided
They’d avoid us evermore
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So we leave our front doors open
With our tellys on the lawn
And the criminals won’t touch them
‘Cause they’re all afraid of Norm’
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And that sums up my childood –
Safe, idyllic, slightly strange
And it wasn’t ’til I grew and left
That things began to change
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Perhaps it was my leaving
Or perhaps there was no link
Perhaps it was coincidence
That Norman turned to drink
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When Norman took up boozing
My poor daddy bore the load
Of that drunken, grumpy elephant
Rampaging up the road
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And they argued, how they argued
From the daybreak to the night
From the night time to the day again
Through darkened hours to light.
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And bit by bit my daddy,
Who had always been on top,
Began to be subserviant
Then simply couldn’t stop
.
Until one day, when visiting
I searched the house in vain
But couldn’t see my daddy
So I went outside again
.
To find him sitting in the shed
A padlock on the door,
A scattering of peanuts
Round about him on the floor.
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I asked him “Where is Norman?”
And “Who locked you in the shed?”
But he didn’t say a word to me –
Just trumpeted instead
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A trumpet full of anguish
And a trumpet full of tears
For my dad was now the elephant –
He even had big ears
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And Norman? We’ll he’d gone to work
Usurped my daddy’s role –
An alcoholic elephant
Needs more than just the dole.
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He worked all through the daytime
Then at night he sat outside
With a sixpack and a Wilbur Smith
He read while daddy cried.
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My daddy was an elephant
Just sitting in his shed
On weekdays he got peanuts
And on Sunday he got bread.