The invasion has begun.
In the distance,I hear the rattle of heavy artillery.
Silage trailers,as they thunder along pock-marked country roads.
Young conscripts,barely legal,battling with the controls of a modern day,
monster tractor.
Happy as the day is long,
they tick tok around the clock,
Posting updates and images of the work in progress
to their army of followers.
They'll be starving by lunch time.
Putins' long white table would seat a platoon of men,
In for the dinner,
On a break from gathering potatoes, building a stack of hay or toiling at a dusty thrasher.
But my mother would barely have a table cloth long enough
for Putins' table.
To cover the blood stains, from the flesh
dripping slowly from the the meat grinder.
He hones his purpose on a stone whet of spite,
Edge kissed to gleam in the dead of night.
Relentless is the echo tuned to hindsight.
Endless in the knowing his cause is right.
His grip is firm, his whetstone flat.
His purpose honed to revenge in tit-for-tat.
The axe grinder, can't ever get over that.
Old grudges are ground in, with spittle spat.
The sparks fly from grinding wheel.
Spun to remove the scars in steel.
Caught in armor on the leg and heel,
Of the foe that stood up from their kneel.
Sharper minds cut cleaner truer lines,
In wood chips, slivers, shaves and fines,
Cut deeper deeper in, to find the quick that binds,
The grinder to the hurt and pain he mines.
The last organ grinder played a blinder
Intending to leave folk a reminder
To music upbeat
All those in the street
Did a conga to “Eye of the Tiger.”
It was the close of a splendid career
The organ grinder shed many a tear
As the music died
He swelled up with pride
For the crowd gave him uproarious cheer.
You can always hear the jangling sound,
Of the organ grinder as he makes his way around.
He's out there in the rain or sun,
And everyone looks and seems to have fun.
He is a funny looking man with an old battered hat,
Which he holds out for people to put their pennies in, but sometimes there are buttons and other bits of this and that.
He seems very old and is stooped and bent,
Pulling that old organ around just to get enough to pay his rent.
He hasn't been around lately, perhaps he is to old to turn the stiff organ winder,
It's been a long time now, so it seems we have seen the last of that old organ grinder.
Echoes of despair swirled in my head
as I inhaled the crisp autumn air
My relationship was hanging by a thread
I knew the breakup was near
As i walked through the streets that afternoon
I heard the organ grinder's familiar tune
My heart churned out its own sad refrain
Wondering if we would get back together again
By the time autumn faded to winter snow
I had met someone new
Snowflakes swirled to and fro
As the north wind blew
Seasons rolled around, then autumn returned, knocking on the door
But I never saw the organ grinder anymore
Tripe, sweetbreads, entrails, offal,
some people spell them awful.
Scottish chefs can do them right
Haggis, a meal, out of sight.
Making a proper meatball sandwich
is virtual what-not-who and which
needing perhaps some extra spice
supply it with a bit of Scotch hype.
The last, best organ 'grinder' that I got
was on Panera Bread’s French baguette, hot.
Barrel-shaped bread held tight as treasure
the tin cup for the drink of my pleasure.
In a quiet street, his music would play,
The last organ grinder, day after day.
Under the moon's soft and silvery gleam,
He lived his life like a fading dream.
No crowd gathered 'round, no applause or cheer,
Just the sound of his organ, crystal clear.
With weathered hands and a knowing gaze,
He played for himself in those dim-lit days.
No family, no friends, just his trusty machine,
He lived and he played in a world unseen.
As the stars above blinked out one by one,
The Last Organ Grinder's song was done.
Alone in the silence, he quietly passed,
No one to mourn him, no words that would last.
In the empty streets where memories wane,
The last organ grinder found his final lane.
His story untold, a life obscure,
In the heart of the city, he'd endure.
His music still lingers in the city's hum,
The last organ grinder, in the city's memory, drums.
Bright tune rings on the streets below
Lovers sing and old feelings glow
On the corner stands an old man
Playing an old barrel organ
Old hearts exult in deep delight
With the gleam of the broad daylight
The dying feelings lived again
Like nurtured by some drops of rain
In his eyes are the memories
Of precious times through centuries
But the wrinkles on his forehead
Give hints on his few days ahead
The organ grinder waves goodbye
May his precious tunes never die
May his mem'ries live forever
On hearts sparked by his bright ember
3rd place
He walks through murky puddles cobble stone
City full of busy sounds and movements
Time advancing enhancing improvements.
Passer-byers in the youthful sunny' hours
Social complexity of daily life
Yearning at the hand's fundamental strife.
With his organ strapped over his shoulder,
Brightly coloured, moving from place to place.
The cutest monkey, large grin on its face.
Round its neck a chain hooked to its collar.
It sits wearing a red little outfit
Trimmed in white, fancied its spirited wit.
Swishing its long tail, holding a tin cup
Dancing to music, a spark in its eye
Collecting coins from giving passersby.
While the organ grinder cranks his organ
He moves from place to place, to avoid arrest.
Laws obtain change, loitering, hard expressed.
The Last Organ Grinder
Paris the city of lovers with its promenade of love
Where young men whisper words of whimsy
Whilst she searches clouds above.
My cap sits upon the floor a short way from the art
Where a red haired man cleans his brush
In a jar propped on his cart.
I turn the wheel until the sound of music fills the air
A carousel of chords dance out I pray they give a care.
For I have lost my own true love amongst the years I share
Now stand alone with memories, my self-ness showing bare.
For all the nights of passion, for all the heartbeat play
I could not cease my loving need to love them all the day
Each one that shone, shone for me and in its light I too could be
An artisan, a poet, a well shod gallantee
So I turn the wheel until the sound of music fills the air
A carousel of chords dance out I pray they give a care.
Bedraggled the old man sat, monkey on his lap.
However could he recover from this mishap?
Louts took his organ and attacked him with a bat.
Monkey on his lap, bedraggled the old man sat.
His old heart gutted, his mind totally wrenched.
Rain yesterday had left him quite drenched.
We are OK my darlin, to his monkey he muttered.
His mind totally wrenched, his old heart gutted.
The rooftop a safe haven, for he and his pet.
Not much chance of another organ, he will get.
He was an expert on the organ, a regular Maven.
For he and his pet, the rooftop was a safe haven.
He can still sing, dance and tap the old soft shoe.
He was the best organ grinder New York ever knew.
Shoes are worn, organ gone, his monkey is everything.
Dance and tap the old soft shoe, he can still sing.
Like puppeteers
organ grinders will always exist;
there can never be a last;
there’s an endless supply of monkeys,
and sheep.
I'm the last organ grinder
And how my arm aches
My back is broken
My legs have the shakes
I'm the last organ grinder
Desparately needing to eat
Playing for pennies
Out here in the streets
I'm the last organ grinder
Weary and old
In threadbare clothing
Wet and cold
I'm the last organ grinder
I used to beguile
Now I'm ignored
Gone out of style
I'm the very last organ grinder
So with one final surge
I'll play for you....
A funeral dirge
The Last Organ Grinder
The last Organ Grinder gave his barrel organ
to his grandson, now working in JP Morgan
He preserved that as an antique piece.
Also that is honoured by his nostalgic niece.
Great entertainer was the last Organ Grinder .
For children he brought fun, enjoyment on wonder.
In core of heart he had to cherish sorrow.
His days are gone. No space for today or tomorrow.
The last Organ Grinder to be remembered indeed
through tales of Grandparents narrated to Grandkids.
May be like a fairy tale or a nice folk lore :
Yet not to ignore but to honour and adore.
Left with only his cup the monkey now panhandles on the corner of Beacon and Kent.
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