It’s a short walk to the river
From the village of my birth,
From the place of my conception
And my home, for what it’s worth.
Just a short walk made each morning,
A tradition that survives,
As my gently lowing cattle
Sing the purpose of their lives.
I could blame it on a promise
Worth a basketful of salt,
But the path I had to travel
Wasn’t anybody’s fault.
Let the children chase the dustman
Till the season of the flood.
I may wear the mask of wisdom,
But I’m only flesh and blood.
There’s a clearing in the forest
Where the dogs can smell the rain,
Where they bark like so much thunder
At the twilight’s dimming flame.
From my bed of leaves and branches
I shall reach up toward the sky
And I’ll drag the sun down with me
In the breath before I die.
Cross the river.
Let me rest beneath the trees
Across the river
Where the spirits of our fathers
Keep their hearts.
When one dream ends,
Another starts.
The Postman
The postman comes once a day
Leaving rubbish on the floor
All piled up by the door.
Then the dustman comes down the lane
And takes it all away again!
Barry Stebbings
11/05/2016
Stop buzzing round my head bee
I am not a flower
Message understood
I'll go and have a shower
I know I 'm smelling sweaty
This I must agree
Working in the garden
Has made a smelly me.
Buzz off and feed now
flowers over there
Go and fill on pollen
I'm a gardener that cares
Sing to my old man's a dustman
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7GeZ3YmONw. Wait til he starts the my old man part
Penned 9 July 2013
Contest Song Lyric
Being a sailor makes me homesick all the time.
Being a policeman makes me not to indulge in crime.
Being a teacher makes me smart and intelligent.
Being a cowboy makes me learn how to shoot.
Being a boxer makes me get bellows everyday.
Being a murderer makes me feel guilty.
Being a dustman makes me filthy always.
Being an angel makes me settle in heaven.
Being a poet makes me learn how to rhyme.
I prefer being myself,
Even if burnt to ashes;
Even if moulded into clay;
I will prefer being myself.