Poem of the Week 18

Praying for Time

George Michael

 

These are the days of the open hand

They will not be the last

Look around now

These are the days of the beggars and the choosers

 

This is the year of the hungry man

Whose place is in the past

Hand in hand with ignorance

And legitimate excuses

 

The rich declare themselves poor

And most of us are not sure

If we have too much

But we’ll take our chances

Because God’s stopped keeping score

 

I guess somewhere along the way

He must have let us all out to play

Turned his back and all God’s children

Crept out the back door

 

And it’s hard to love, there’s so much to hate

Hanging on to hope

When there is no hope to speak of

And the wounded skies above say it’s much much too late

Well maybe we should all be praying for time

 

These are the days of the empty hand

Oh you hold on to what you can

And charity is a coat you wear twice a year

 

This is the year of the guilty man

Your television takes a stand

And you find that what was over there is over here

 

So you scream from behind your door

Say “what’s mine is mine and not yours”

I may have too much but I’ll take my chances

Because God’s stopped keeping score

And you cling to the things they sold you

Did you cover your eyes when they told you

That he can’t come back

Beacuse he has no children to come back for

 

It’s hard to love there’s so much to hate

Hanging on to hope when there is no hope to speak of

And the wounded skies above say it’s much too late

So maybe we should all be praying for time.

Poem of the Week 17

The Ballad of Barry and Freda

Victoria Wood

 

Freda and Barry sat one night

The sky was clear, the stars were bright

The wind was soft, the moon was up

Freda drained her cocoa cup.

She licked her lips she felt sublime!

She switched off Gardener’s Question Time

Barry Cringed in fear and dread

As Freda Grabbed his tie and said:

 

Let’s do it, let’s do it, do it while the mood is right!

I’m feeling, appealing,

I’ve really got an appetite.

I’m on fire

with desire-

I could handle half the tenors in a male voice choir.

Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

 

But he said:

I can’t do it, I can’t do it,

I don’t believe in too much sex

This fashion

For passion

Turns us into nervous wrecks.

No derision,

My decision:

I’d rather watch the Spinners on the television.

I can’t do it, I can’t do it tonight.

 

So she said

Let’s do it, let’s do it, do it till our hearts go boom

Go native,

Creative,

Living in the living room.

This folly

for jolly;

Bend me backwards on me hostess trolley!

Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight.

 

But he said

I can’t do it, I can’t do it, my heavy-breathing days are gone.

I’m older, feel colder;

It’s other things that turn me on.

I’m imploring-

I’m boring-

Let me read this catalogue on vinyl flooring!

I can’t do it, I can’t do it tonight.

 

Then she said

Let’s do it, let’s do it, have a crazy night of love!

I’ll strip bare,

I’ll just wear

stilettos and an oven glove!

Don’t starve a girl of a palaver,

Dangle from the wardrobe in your balaclava.

Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

 

But he said

I can’t do it, I can’t do it,

I know ill only get it wrong.

Don’t angle

For me to dangle,

My arms have never been that strong;

Stop pouting!

Stop shouting-

You know I pulled a muscle when I did that grouting.

I can’t do it, I can’t do it tonight.

 

Let’s do it, let’s do it, share a night of wild romance!

Frenetic,

Poetic, this could be your last big chance!

To quote Milton,

To eat stilton,

To roll with gay abandon on the tufted wilton!

Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

 

I can’t do it, I can’t do it,

I’ve got other little jobs on hand.

Don’t grouse

Around the house

I’ve got a busy evening planned.

Stop nagging!

I’m flagging;

you know as well as i do that the pipes want lagging.

I can’t do it, I can’t do it tonight.

 

Let’s do it, let’s do it, while I’m really in The mood…

Three cheers!

It’s years

Since I caught you even semi-nude.

Get drastic,

Gymnastic-

Wear your baggy Y-fronts with the loose elastic but

Let’s do it, Let’s do it tonight!

 

I can’t do it, I can’t do it,

I must refuse to get undressed

I feel silly.

It’s to chilly

To go with out my thermal vest.

Don’t choose me,

Don’t use me

My mother sent a note to say you must excuse me.

I can’t do it, I can’t do it tonight.

 

Let’s do it, let’s do it, I really absolutly must.

I won’t exempt you,

Want to temp you,

Want to drive you mad with lust.

No contortions:

Smear an avocado on my lower portions!

Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

 

I can’t do it, I can’t do it,

It’s really not my cup of tea;

I’m harassed,

Embarrassed;

I wish you hadn’t picked on me.

No barter —

A non-starter;

I feel about as sensuous as Jimmy Carter

I can’t do it, can’t do it tonight.

 

Let’s do it, let’s do it, I really want to run amok!

Let’s wriggle!

Let’s jiggle!

Let’s really make the rafters rock!

Be mighty,

Be flighty come and melt the buttons on my flame-proof nightie!

Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

Let’s do it, let’s do it, I really want to rant and rave!

Let’s go,

Cos i know just

Just how you want to behave:

Not bleakly,

Not meekly-

Beat me on the bottom with the Woman’s weekly-

Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

 

Poem of the Week 16

The Computer’s First Christmas

Edward Morgan

 

jollymerry

hollyberry

jollyberry

merryholly

happyjolly

jollyjelly

jellybelly

bellymerry

hollyheppy

jollyMolly

marryJerry

merryHarry

happyBarry

heppyJarry

bobbyheppy

berryjorry

jorryjolly

moppyjelly

Mollymerry

Jerryjolly

bellyboppy

jorryhoppy

hollymoppy

Barrymerry

Jarryhappy

happyboppy

boppyjolly

jollymerry

merrymerry

merrymerry

merryChris

ammerryasa

Chrismerry

asMERRYCHR

YSANTHEMUM

Poem of the Week 15

The Remarkable Cake

Margaret Mahy

 

It’s Christmas – the time when we gather to make

A truly remarkable once-a-year cake.

The recipe’s written in letters of gold

By a family witch who is terribly old.

 

The rule of this cake is it has to be made

In a wheelbarrow (stirred with a shovel or spade)

At Christmas, the season of love and good will.

Other times of the year it might make you feel ill.

 

You must nail it together or stick it with glue,

Then hammer it flat with the heel of your shoe.

You must stretch it out thin, you must tie it in knots,

Then get out your paint box and paint it with spots.

 

What a taste! What a flavour! It’s certain to please.

It’s rather like ice-cream with pickles and cheese.

In June it would taste like spaghetti and mud,

While its taste in September would curdle your blood.

 

Oh, what a cake! It looks simply delicious.

Now get out the carving knife, get out the dishes!

Be careful! Be careful! This cake might explode,

And blow up the kitchen and part of the road.

 

Oh dear! It’s exploded! I thought that it might.

It’s not very often we get it just right.

Let’s comfort the baby, revive Uncle Dan,

And we’ll start it all over as soon as we can.

 

For Christmas – that gipsy day – comes and it goes

Far sooner than ever we dare to suppose.

Once more in December we’ll gather to make

That truly remarkable once-a-year cake.