The Show Must Go On
The show must go on
“Next of Kin have been informed”
Another stage is cleared
No curtain call
The tragedy continues off stage.
How long must mothers watch
The measured steps of Helmand comrades
Bravely shouldering brothers
Draped in Union Flags
Listening with weary ears
Glistening eyes and smothered sobs
To the Last Post.
19, 29, 39, too young to die!
More songs to sing
More tears to shed
More jokes to tell
More first nights
More curtain calls.
National anthem
Cenotaph backdrop
Stage in darkness.
Mothers, fathers, lovers walk away
Taliban bombs ringing in their ears.
Another audience will take their place
Rosemary Porter 2009
No More Baked Beans
Each evening comes the call to tea,
“Baked beans on toast tonight!”
Those orange blobs on burnt brown bread -
I hate the bloody sight!
“Baked beans on toast tonight!”
Those orange blobs on burnt brown bread -
I hate the bloody sight!
The opener carves up the tin.
They splat as out they drop.
That simmering, the sickly smell,
The bubble and the pop.
They splat as out they drop.
That simmering, the sickly smell,
The bubble and the pop.
The knife that tussles with the toast,
The fork that grips each lump,
The sauce that slithers down my chin
Gives me the blooming hump.
The fork that grips each lump,
The sauce that slithers down my chin
Gives me the blooming hump.
At school they call me Rumbletum.
I know the reason why!
They hold their nose as I walk past
And look up to the sky.
I know the reason why!
They hold their nose as I walk past
And look up to the sky.
It’s not my fault. I hate the stuff.
For choice I’d eat no more.
But every day it waits for me
As I come through the door.
For choice I’d eat no more.
But every day it waits for me
As I come through the door.
I had a dream the other night.
My mum stood, pan in hand,
“I’ve two tins here for you my love.
Now aint that really grand?”
My mum stood, pan in hand,
“I’ve two tins here for you my love.
Now aint that really grand?”
I grimaced and I turned my back,
“Dear mum, you cannot stay!”
Pulled down my jeans, erupted loud
And blew her clean away.
“Dear mum, you cannot stay!”
Pulled down my jeans, erupted loud
And blew her clean away.
Adrienne Tinn
HYPOCRITES
If you live in HARLOW
Be you Teacher, Priest or Nurse
You are branded as a hooligan
A ne’er do well, or worse
Yep, it’s the anti- new town racists
You’ll often hear them say
“Oh, what a dreadful place
I live two miles away”
Many spent their life here
Their children STILL reside
I spoke to one the other day
“I HATE Harlow” she cried
She’d travelled into Harlow
To use our brand new pool
I glared at her quite speechless!
And tried to keep my cool
They come here for their Badminton
Their Tennis and their Squash
Then look down their nose at you
As though you never wash
Next time you change your postcode
By moving up the road
Don’t think you are a CUT ABOVE
Once in your new abode!
A DIXON DITTY
by Robert Halfon - www.roberthalfon.blogspot.com
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