Written by
Roger McGough |
i wanted one life
you wanted another
we couldn't have our cake
so we ate eachother.
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Written by
Roger McGough |
Mrs Moon
sitting up in the sky
little old lady
rock-a-bye
with a ball of fading light
and silvery needles
knitting the night
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Written by
Roger McGough |
A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go.
(To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don't let me in.
Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.
And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don't take sweets from?
Perhaps they're to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins.
Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass.
Imagine.
I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies.
When there's puddles.
Yellowwellies.
I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher.
The one who makes the tea.
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Written by
Roger McGough |
Everyday,
I think about dying.
About disease, starvation,
violence, terrorism, war,
the end of the world.
It helps
keep my mind off things.
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Written by
Roger McGough |
Chaos ruled OK in the classroom
as bravely the teacher walked in
the nooligans ignored him
hid voice was lost in the din
"The theme for today is violence
and homework will be set
I'm going to teach you a lesson
one that you'll never forget"
He picked on a boy who was shouting
and throttled him then and there
then garrotted the girl behind him
(the one with grotty hair)
Then sword in hand he hacked his way
between the chattering rows
"First come, first severed" he declared
"fingers, feet or toes"
He threw the sword at a latecomer
it struck with deadly aim
then pulling out a shotgun
he continued with his game
The first blast cleared the backrow
(where those who skive hang out)
they collapsed like rubber dinghies
when the plug's pulled out
"Please may I leave the room sir?"
a trembling vandal enquired
"Of course you may" said teacher
put the gun to his temple and fired
The Head popped a head round the doorway
to see why a din was being made
nodded understandingly
then tossed in a grenade
And when the ammo was well spent
with blood on every chair
Silence shuffled forward
with its hands up in the air
The teacher surveyed the carnage
the dying and the dead
He waggled a finger severely
"Now let that be a lesson" he said
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Written by
Roger McGough |
'The trouble with snowmen,'
Said my father one year
'They are no sooner made
than they just disappear.
I'll build you a snowman
And I'll build it to last
Add sand and cement
And then have it cast.
And so every winter,'
He went on to explain
'You shall have a snowman
Be it sunshine or rain.
'
And that snowman still stands
Though my father is gone
Out there in the garden
Like an unmarked gravestone.
Staring up at the house
Gross and misshapen
As if waiting for something
Bad to happen.
For as the years pass
And I grow older
When summers seem short
And winters colder.
The snowmen I envy
As I watch children play
Are the ones that are made
And then fade away.
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Written by
Roger McGough |
with love
give me your hand
some stranger
is fiction than truth
without love
I'm justa has
been away
too long in the tooth.
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Written by
Roger McGough |
Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides
Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death
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Written by
Roger McGough |
The time I like best is 6am
when the snow is 6 inches deep
which I'm yet to discover
'cause I'm under the covers
fast, fast asleep.
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Written by
Roger McGough |
I explain quietly.
You
hear me shouting.
You
try a new tack.
I
feel old wounds reopen.
You see both sides.
I
see your blinkers.
I
am placatory.
You
sense a new selfishness.
I am a dove.
You
recognize the hawk.
You
offer an olive branch.
I
feel the thorns.
You bleed.
I
see crocodile tears.
I
withdraw.
You
reel from the impact.
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