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