Darlings are you ready for the long winter's fall?

said the lady in her parlor

said the butler in the hall.

Is there time for another?

cried the drunkard in his sleep.

Not likely

said the little child. What's done

the Lord can keep.

And the vicar stands a-praying.

And the television dies

as the white dot flickers and is gone

and no-one stops to cry.

The big jet rumbles over runway miles

that scar the patchwork green

where slick tycoons and rich buffoons

have opened up the seam

of golden nights and champagne flights

ad-man overkill

and in the haze

consumer crazed

we take the sugar pill.

Jagged fires mark the picket lines

the politicians weep

and mealy-mouthed

through corridors of power on tip-toe creep.

Come and see bureaucracy

make its final heave

and let the new disorder through

while senses take their leave.

Families screaming line the streets

and put the windows through

in corner shops

where keepers kept

the country's life-blood blue.

Take their pick

and try the trick

with loaves and fishes shared

and the vicar shouts

as the lights go out,

and no-one really cares.



Dark Ages

shaking the dead

Closed pages

better not read

Cold rages

burn in your head.