batman

Batman on the window ledge

three storeys from the floor

wants the courts to sign a pledge

to see his kids once more

the hand that rocks the cradle

doesn't want to know

such neat poison she will ladle

in words sweet and low

the children under direction

utter bitter lies

this family of introspection

absent parents they despise

so Batman is on a protest

a tall three storeys high

a placard displayed on his chest

justice, truth, or die

time to talk

The farmer raised his hand

In cheerful recognition

The engineer stopped is car

He had a proposition

The engineer stepped out the car

To the combined harvester Walked

It had seemed an eon

Since these two pals had talked

The combine harvester blocked the road

While the two old friends chatted

Such a pleasant sunny day

Good crack is all that matter

While they struck a bargain

For maintenance of machinery

On such a pleasant day

with good crack in pleasant scenery

From a flask they toasted well

Of the future, and of trade

Its strange they said to see no cars

On this sunny day god made

Behind the combined harvester

Stretching far and trying patients

Behold a massive traffic jam

Straining country/town relations

gravity where is it

Gravity where is your pull?

Where does your force hide?

Is it found in cotton and wool?

In clothes I wear with pride

.

Why do the used clothes you see

Lay crumpled on the floor

They must be held by gravity

So cant hang up as before

.

Socks once used and damp inside

The odour will upward rise

One sock will escape and hide

The washing basket spies

.

Clothes reaching the washing machine

With detergent and water spin

Tumbled, flattened, treated mean

Destroys the gravity within

.

Clean clothes stay hung up on the rack

Soiled clothes coat the floor

So what puts the gravity back?

Why do children’s clothes hold more?

the singer

The aging singer her beauty fading

Down marble staircase tight dress parading

Her come back tour all seats sold

The audience welcomes her spirit bold

The recital of songs old and new

The singing range she use to do

But there is wobble and some notes flat

Did the audience notice that

She takes her final bow low

Head bent and rising slow

The audiences clap and cheer

But on her cheek a failures tear

dream land

Climb up on the chair beside me

And a tale to you I’ll tell

Of a happy land where friends call

With nothing they must sell

Where cars are very few

And there is no traffic jam

Most of the people happily travel

On buses train and tram

.

Children spend most days at school

And teachers love to teach

You find it’s just the clergy

Not politicians that preach

The police walk the beat alone

Keeping an eye on crime

Willing to show you the way

And telling you the time

.

The mail has your name on it

When coming through the door

If you have a debt to pay

The banks don’t offer more

Doors are always open

There is nothing there to hide

You can go to the city streets

And need not park and ride

.

Children have a mum at home

Grandparents live quite near

Aliens came from outer space

Not good people that you fear

Manufactures make spare parts

Machines are made to last

In this foreign country

The old folks call the past

Sitting

She's sitting in her favourite chair

In the cold window bay

She does not move or speak a word

she has nothing to say

The world that passes by her now

So fast and in a blur

Uncomprehending images

With syllables that slur

Hot food brought to her on a tray

With lid to keep heat in

Too weak to lift or to inspect

The contents held within

Untouched the tray is then removed

No one checks it to see

If she has eaten anything

of the culinary debris

Her hair once thick now fine as silk

Has seen no comb for days

There's no need to dress smartly

No compliment or praise

Her hygiene once so important

now taken for a bath

Only when she begins to smell

Attended by staff wrath

Her husband of some sixty years

she's not allowed to see

Is in an all male nursing home

Whose house sale pays the fee

She dreams at night of images

screams like one pursued

restrained to meet the morning

sedated and subdued

beggars

These beggars I see in the door

Are not the same as those before

In every town and every city

Modern down and out seek pity

No longer the casualties of war

Destroyed by carnage and gore

We sent them off to fight for us

When broken shells they disgust

In my youth the down and outs

That Orwell wrote so much about

Had their mind and body destroyed

Could not be gainfully employed

What war casualties are these?

With begging bowl and dog of fleas

On heroin and alcohol they suckle

Under our modern life they buckle

These young, our damaged seed

The casualties of our greed

They lost all not for liberty

But the evils of our society