Always thought God's an odd bod
Untruths like hoofs stuck in a clod
Over us aloof just run roughshod
So don't give love above the nod
No proof where Angels ever trod
More encores from the laws of sod
Each church on a perch made a wad
Will besmirch then constantly prod
Tribal bible merch from God squad
Us all in the lurch bait on their rod
We're all just peas in the same pod
No merry on sherry on vicar's quad
Fickle like feather tickle of Ken Dodd
As through the strife of life we plod
Always been more rocker than mod
But still we are all carriers of the hod
As yes ultimately we're all on our tod
Because yes confess there is no God
Our Nordic God run roughshod by the cynics
Mimics all those skeptics & pundits in pulpits
Sod odd bod critics clinics their unfair optics
Hysterics but Bazball clerics are not yet relics
Despite batting lapse alright collapse specifics
The insult not horrific result of cult’s gimmicks
Got it wrong will still sing same mesmeric song lyrics
Twits witticisms & criticisms taken a toll…troll gits
Shaken has Bazball forsaken its soul..drole misfits
No more stealth or self control just abysmal skits
Dismal death roll rigmarole gambits whole Bazball in bits?
On the dole or run rate wealth in rude health call it quits
Flits their way to play their flair hits as prole media spits
Grandstand Baz Ben stable fable big band brand label fits
Aussies canned.. gawking Larrikin ti*s balking..its the pits
Goal corking victory at the Gabba hoodoo fortress venue
Folks blabber talking of Stokes blokes stalking voodoo
Oz jibber jabber fibber distress as we made history..phew
Yes JuJu mystery temptress played express Yabba Dabba Doo!
Don't give a jot or
A sod this lot
On your tod..just nod
Seedier greedier leaders
Stun..Shun the Needier
Not just down trodden
Sodden...run roughshod
Beseech each of those clowns..down
In the dumps chumps who chose
Plumps for stealthy
Leeches who teaches
Fools at our schools
Only the wealthy can stay healthy
No education for the nation
Uses...abuses..eschews..media issues..then sues
Argy bargy - sarky malarkey ensues
Bemuses readers…forsake news as fake
It's a Maga Saga ruse for f**ks sake
No immigration...deplore integration
To restore order…close the border
Hardcore race riot diet of denigration
Likes 60's generation segregation
Damnation not salvation..just devastation
The gorse withers on the ground
The Sun is autumnally thin
Silence hithes in blue
Those roughshod days
are scattered with the leaves
Schemes are forgotten
Feelings disposed Into the chamber
of nothingness do we ascend
Lamenting Guitars are trickling
And the lamp lightly lit
We have come to dream
You ran roughshod over my sandcastle
Without a flicker of commotion
diverting the starboard
and finding ourselves
at a yawning beach
Did you see yourself
as a seashell
Did you cast an enchanted look
There's always a sea song
for a remedy overdue
Shake off the foam
and clear your head
Did you see yourself as a crab
yet noted the World didn't care enough
The gorse withers on the ground
The Sun is autumnally thin
Silence ties in blue
Those roughshod days
are scattered with the leaves
Schemes are forgotten
Feelings disposed
Into the chamber of nothingness
do we ascend
Lamenting
Guitars are trickling
And the lamp lightly lit
We have come to dream
The fox quakes with delight
Means testing winter fuel
what a future precedent
Already ditching the social care plan
They say they have a black spending hole
so spending must abate for a while
Tax your January private schools
and who else
They ride roughshod over the old
tax forms for the lot
They collect monies
you've never read about
like inheritance tax
Have you been
Hiking the Quiraing trail on the isle of Skye?
watching golden eagles as they fly by?
Have you been
Hiking through fields of paintbrush on Mount Hood?
From Trillium Lake to Timberline, if you haven't you should.
Have you been
Pushing a frontier, discovering the new
Being all you can be, pursuing every clue?
Have you been
Locked in a small box on a Sandinista command?
They call it a Casita because there's no room to stand.
Have you been
Found dead in a Gulag before you might have been traded
For a Russian hitman, now all hope faded.
Have you been
Imprisoned by the scheming of one man's small mind
wings clipped, hemmed in, and confined?
Have you been
Locked up for ten years in Ariel Castro's basement
Chained, beaten, having ten years wasted?
Have you been
In solitary confinement for a year, because you protested fraud
In a D.C. jail, rights trampled roughshod.
Have you been
Dying with no friends left, in a hospice bed
Your sons think you are unaware, but you're all there, not yet dead.
Have you been
Dreaming at your desk, with your eyes wide open?
Looking for space, wishing for time to surf life's ocean?
I was raised in sea of defiance
and yet my Zephyr has lost its realm
I am ungrained in all colour
lost in a rattled cage
and ageing fast
Speaking in tounges
I have seen your everyday jamboree
Although the seasons were roughshod
did we not heed too
Raise a glass to all who care
About civil rights and the Koala bear
Save the planet, spare the rod
Make them listen, ride roughshod
Assume that we're ignorant, tie back our ears
Open our eye's year upon year
"Please let me through, let me go to work"
"Just Stop Oil" said with a smirk
Glued to trains, who's idea was that
The men who pay these idiots, Yes those prats
Disrupt where they can, disrupt everything
Nothing will stop them till the Fat Lady sings
They wreck havoc each day with total impunity
Disrupting our lives away from their communities
Selfish actions that can affect our lives
Not to their families but our children and wives
Enough is enough now, let us decide
Not to be bullied into taking your side
Your actions disgust me, I just want to be
In control of my thoughts which I once thought were free.
I was raised in sea of defiance
and my tired Zephyr has lost its sound
I have lost all colour
I am lost in a rattled cage
and ageing fast
Speaking in tounges
I have seen your everyday jamboree
Although the seasons were roughshod
did we not bleed too
A distraught driver drove to Dover
Running roughshod in his Rover,
Crushing cultivated clover,
Mangling marigolds, moreover,
Pancaking progeny of plover.
Liquor-laden lies to lover;
Outcome: outed, ousted, over.
A gaunt face
wizened by time,
portrays
a no-nonsense
man of convictions,
poor, yet proud
of his
heritage.
And yet,
beneath that
roughshod look
I glimpse a kind heart
and soul, suggesting he’s
more
human than he seems.
“Heads will roll,” I heard the line boss say,
“Immigration agents checking papers today.”
Things are hard all over (hard all over).
Things are hard all over (hard all over).
Grab your lunchbox and scram.
The office don’t give a damn.
Things are hard all over.
Clear the bar and grip the bottle tight.
Some poor mother’s son won’t make it home tonight.
Things are hard all over (hard all over).
Things are hard all over (hard all over).
Got that saltwater thirst,
My bladder’s fixin’ to burst.
Things are hard all over.
Yankees running roughshod.
Mets are running scared.
New York Times predicts
There won’t be anybody spared.
Things are hard all over.
Magdalene’s on the corner display,
Advertising booty. Got her own bills to pay.
Things are hard all over (hard all over).
Things are hard all over (hard all over).
The little girl needs a fix
So she’s been turning some tricks.
Yeah, things are hard all over.
Running wild propelled by echoes of thunderous hooves clip clopping rhyme
A troop of stallions gallop in assonance over fields of pasture in adnomination
Display streams of collective unconsciousness un-trapped by stirrups and reigns
Apposition knows no boundaries when pairing takes part in euphonic neighing
Here in Nirvana they need neither hyperbole nor euphemism to cover lost ground
Para-diastole does not exist in equine paradise as syncope and solecism canter
Karma has no boundaries and parrhesia has lost the shadows of juxtaposed isms
Unsaddled from the weight of the whip the horizon bears no limit for freedom
The herd adheres not to the pathetic fallacy of tamed nature riding roughshod
Over rhetorical questions or self-styled syllepsis of spurs spurned on by clatter
When I look at the feast of mares and fillies following instinct and pure inclination
My path finds their spoor on track to a promised land of inhibition and pleasure
29th March 2020
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