King & Queens (An old aide memoir from my school-days finally put down on paper)

Willie, Willie, Henry John,
Stephen, Henry, Richard One
Henry, Edward One Two Three,
Richard the second & Henry One V
York and Lancaster go to war,
Henry deposed by Edward Four.
Edward Five was never crowned,
Richard the Third was murdered found.
Henry, Henry he put his wives to death,
Edward, Mary, Elizabeth,
James then Charles who lost his head,
(Olivier Cromwell ruled instead)
And when the civil War was through
Came Charles the second and JamieTwo.
William and Mary of the orange clan
Quickly followed by good Queen Anne.
Georges One Two Three and Four
William and Victorior
Edward, George and Edward Eight
Then George the Sixth ‘cos he abdicates.

©Rosewing

Protest!

To scared to live too broke to die

Ever wonder the reason why ?

We came to listen to what they said,

-A thousand bodies laying dead

Never question who they may be

We’re supposed to live in a democracy.

Politicians ask you for their vote

On poverty and homelessness they gloat

Seek some asylum ? …we’re already here

This is country so full of fear.

Wait the morning comes around

Quickly now, without a sound

To break the dawn of bright new world

Banners flying, peace unfurled

Crime is rampant, streets of hate

Only death can steal your fate

Never walk alone the streets of pain

Cash disappearing down the drain

Of the governments ever deepening well

Welcome; to the gates to hell

©Rosewing

Joined At The Hip

 Shoehorned into No ten
Tories back in Maggies den
Siamese twins to wield the axe
Cutting jobs & raising tax
Hand in hand they smile & grin
"What a mess they left the country in
"We'll sort it out it won't  be pretty
In fact there's nothing in the kitty."

New ideas new politics
The country's ills they can fix
Let the rich grow even more
To keep them warm we'll burn the poor!
Gordon promised a Fair for all
Thrilling rides & crashing falls
So many castles built on sand

Now we're into Cleggoland,

©Rosewing

Leaders Debate

'Leaders spout in rehearsed debate,
Volcanic ash seals travellers fate.
Performed so bad he's on the floor
Supporters said he won the score.

"I agree with Nick" he says aloud
Acquiescing to the crowd.
Smiles & handshakes hide the fear,
"We might have to work with this guy here

Can't upset the Liberal man,
(But I don't agree with his Trident ban )"
Might need to form a coalition
Furthering political ambition.

Mps expenses all forgotten?
Parliament all but rotten
Vote for change, vote for me
"The future won't be pain free"

Taxes up & jobs cut again
Does it matter who's gets in number ten?
"I'm working class, Honest Guv!"
I'm voting for None of the Above!
      
               ©Rosewing

The Old Man

The dusty road throbbed beneath his feet

as the shades of sunset sigh;

The silence repeats itself over again

and the victims are starting to cry.

The weary fields are taking their rest,

as the down the highway he plods on;

The graveyard yawned its empty jaws

for the bodies have long since gone.

There's a hawthorn hedge by the roadside,

but he doesn't need shelter to sleep;

The pale moon cries down in the valley

But how can dead men weep?

The road seemed to shudder at the step
of that poor lonely cripple with his cane.

His ponderous walk and monotonous tune,

that he whistled to comfort the rain.

As he reached his plotted destination

his black cloak ran with blood.

Then he put a horn to his cold dry lips

and blew the last doleful note.

Then off once more into darkness

as he disappears over the hill.

But he will come again my friend

for there's plenty more graves to fill

©Rosewing

Those Who Are Perfect

                                                The priest stands by his altar in his purple cloak,

                                                At the rear of the church the hobo has a smoke

                                                And lounges ‘gainst a portrait of Mary.

                                                A latecomer creeps in like an oversized fairy

                                                Tiptoeing through a foreign land.

                                                And the people just don’t understand,

                                                What they see before their eyes,

                                                They sit listening to the righteous lies

                                                Of the priest who cannot sin.

                                                The small child reads her book in the Lady chapel

                                               The schoolgirl sits disinterested munching her apple

                                               Whilst the priest sings his liturgy in Latin

                                                Dressed like a woman in his robes of violet satin.

                                               The altar boy swings his incense;

                                               But the pious deeds are nonsense

                                               To the blank minded fools who look

                                               At the prophet preaching from his holy book

                                               He’s the priest who cannot sin.        

                               

                                                The lady from No. 26 looks disgusted at her son

                                                Who thinking now just how he could use his gun

                                                To rid the people of that voice from above.

                                                And the gent in the corner sits fiddling with his glove

                                                Looking at the girl opposite, wanting to whistle.

                                                Meanwhile the parson finishes his epistle,

                                                Then starts his sermon about the state of the nation,

                                                 His dreary speech to a bored congregation

                                                Who listen to the priest who cannot sin.

                                                The man in from the pub just over the road

                                                Sits in his pew moaning at the load

                                                Of old rubbish that the priest is saying

                                                Then a twelfth century organ starting playing

                                                Its morbid moaning march of death

                                                The bishop’s message of righteous breath

                                                Is read from the richly robed altar

                                                His voice is clear and does not falter

                                                He’s the priest who cannot sin.

                                               Girls who talk at the back of the church

                                               Peer sarcastically at the priest on his perch

                                               Of golden cloth from eastern lands.

                                              They watch him wet his holy hands

                                              With water that he says is blessed,

                                              And then as he genuflects

                                              They giggle with their boyfriends

                                              Peace to all, the verger sends

                                               He’s the priest who cannot sin

                                              Why do these people go to this place

                                               To hear hypocrisy dressed in lace,

                                               And see drink his wine and call it blood

                                               Do they go because they think it’s good

                                               To be seen there, like going to the Ritz

                                               They’d rather be somewhere else; hypocrites!

                                              Most are there to meet their friends

                                               They’re just religious at week ends

                                               They’re ‘Christians’ who cannot sin.

                                                  ©Rosewing

The City

Risen from the ashes of Hitler’s War,

Proud to hold its head up high,

Reduced to rubble by an uncaring council

And a city is left to die.

A transport system that chokes the life

From the once vibrant heart of the city,

Dinosaur buses belch out black smoke,

While the Bus Station is stagnant & empty

No sense of direction – history’s demolished,

Plastic modernity built in place;

One hospital left buried in cars,

While others are sold off for cash.

No council homes, no public loos;

Departments are all over budget.

Borrow from Peter to pay back Paul,

It’ll work right if you fudge it!

Oh how the might have fallen,

How pride can turn to despair.

Heritage crumbles on litter strewn streets;

And no-one seems to care.

           ©Rosewing

The Bishop

Mitered Bishop with his crozier held high
Waves his hand in mock goodbye.
The bells peel out; the choir all sing,
Priest stoops to kiss the sacred ring.
Purple,scarlet robes of glory,
If only the vestments could tell a story
Congregation mumble a forgotten hymn
And hide the truth from deep within.

Distrust and envy, disgust and hate!
Critiscm that cannot wait.
Ignore the bible s' written word,
A family life that seems absurd.
Darkness fills where light once shon,
Empty churches, prayers all gone.
Modern thinking says that it’s okay
'God doesn't mind if the Bishops gay'

©Rosewing

Moral Compass

Has our chance of World Cup glory gone

'Cos Terry can't keep his trousers on?

Is it a symptom of our state,

To shag the girlfriend of a mate?

Is parliament in disrepute

'Cos politicians have been too cute?

MPs that just don't give a damn

Then throw their dummy's out the pram!

Are we just being fed a load of bull

While bankers keep their pockets full?

Taxpayers funds for their own ends

Driving round in Mercedes Benz.

Fantasy & fabrication

Statistics lie to all the nation

Morality & honest graft

Replaced by smear & guile & craft

Has Englands' sense of fair play gone

Is the moral compass not switched on?

The Little Grey Men

The little grey men look down on you,

                                                      Faceless and shameless but one of the few…….

                                          A little grey man with lies in his hands

                                          He cannot explain, and we don’t understand

                                          Why fat cats get fatter, while the thin ones just die;

                                          This little grey man in his old school tie.

                                           The Chameleon looks on with a smile on his face
                                                             He’s eloquently able to put over his case.

                                           He’s learning his tricks from the little grey man,

                                           How to drive a Mercedes and call it a van!

                                           The little grey man (a friend of the banks)

                                           Plucks company directors from out of their ranks.

                                           “Lets’ tax the grannies, the sick and the poor”

                                           “No !” says chameleon. “That’s what we’re here for.”

                                            Let’s kill the world for the sake of a dime

                                            Profit and money!......; to fail is  a crime!

                                            Lets worship the dollar, the pound and the yen,..

                                            …Pollution means nothing to little grey men.

                                            The little grey men all from the same cut

                                            Made in the factories that they’ve now shut……………..

                                              .....................  The little grey man has more colour now

                                                         Chameleon it seems has shown him how

                                                                     to move with the times and change with the scene

                                                         Blue…? Red…? Or …Orange…?

                                                         But not grey……………..or GREEN!!!

                       

                                                                                       ©Rosewing    

The Ebbing Tide of Surf

While the tears gushed loudly
like a waterfall of laughter,
He thought of the promises
broken and smashed,
and the girl with the garland thread
in her hair was smiling.

The rain will sing you a song
while the sun sleeps in its shell.
The pavement stones
are painted like some mosaic dream,
and the girl with the rainbow
smile was standing alone.

The glasses clink to symbolise
the end of another phase,
a week end web unwinding,
while work stands still,
and the girl with the crystal
cut eyes was laughing.

While the grandfather's neon face
approached the midnight quarter,
the white cloaked figure crept
from the shadows of revelry
and the girl with the ribbon
in her hair had gone

©Rosewing

The Child

Cruel, cruel world,
ugly and cold.
The child crouches in her cot.
Wild, wild eyes
Silent and still.
The girl the world had forgot.

Black, black night,
Stark and silent.
Freedom lies within the mind.
Bright, bright day,
Sunny but wet.
And a peace that no-one can find.

Cold, cold stare,
Bitter but sweet.
Confusion reigns supreme.
Sad, sad life
Alone, unloved.
But not within her dreams

©Rosewing

The PM's P.M.

The year is now two thousand ten
The Pms PM is back again
Artful wordsmith plans his move
Gets Gordon Brown into the groove

First lord of this & Lord of that
More titles than fit on his hat
Is he the power behind the throne
Or just another Labour crone ?

Its time he went back to Euroland
His friends can give a helping hand
Perhaps into media, radio or TV
His talents are endless,I’m sure you’ll agree
Acting could be his Jewel in the Crown
Or Boys from the Blackstuff.....
...(or should that be brown ?)

©Rosewing

2010 A new decade?

Under the shadow of Big Ben at the dawn of twenty Ten;
Gordon back inside his den? Man Utd to win league again ?
All this money ,wealth & skill; creditors circling for the kill
If the banks don’t wreck us the icecaps will

What lies ahead, what fortunes hail .Labour or Tory both seem stale
New decade new start, new hope :More episodes of the UK soap.
Will anything really change at all ? Capitalism heading for a fall?
The poor still die while the rich have a ball

Under the shadow of Big Ben at the dawn of twenty Ten
More Mps to flaunt their wealth? Country suffers poorer health ?
Soldiers die in Afghanistan; trouble brewing in Iran
What else can the govenment find to ban ?

More abuse of human rights? Israel starts another fight?
Camera watch from every wall, Big Brother monitors every call
Climate watch ,G-Twenty two What difference will it make to you?
Is the future red or Blue?
(or perhaps even a hint of Orange?)

 ©Rosewing