Monday 1 April 2019

colour blindness

 
 Pop (Harold Lee) in the Army, c. 1940; & in the RAF c. 1944




ghost rides



hear the mail train bound for Holyhead

drum its fingers through the chilly night

riding waves of field & woodland lanes

late as you like



dash of clammy aspirations hot

water bottle smell of paraffin

heater musty bed in summer house

playgirl in tights



sleeplessness describes so many nights

countless trains of thought I never quite

boarded drifting in & out of mind

cut to the chase



living in the past I make it new

bring my brother back & see us through

no mistakes for once we put things right

riding our bikes



now I sleep the sleep of kids wake up

old enough to be our granddad’s age

long before the pair of us were born

late as you like
 
 
 
my first Scot

take it out of here Pal he said
pointing at his nose as if I would
Borstal taught he mopped the floor with me

stowed away to Aussie land he claimed
leaping from the plane across the run
way which even I did not believe

still I learned a thing or two from him
never criticise a fellow's speech
how to lose a pound when not to preach

till that time the Scottish people had
all appeared to me stereotypes
broke the mould is what I mean to say

ought to send your ma a bob or two
home I’d never manage that did he
something in my nose said not to ask



lucky for us


Pop was colour blind which saved his life

otherwise in bombers he’d have flown

missions over Germany and France



having missed Dunkirk he’d walked to La

Boule to get evacuated once

volunteering twice was tempting fate



after spotting he’d a gammy leg

not too great an issue for the Raf

showed some pictures that had made him laugh



just a mess of colours Sir what's there

can’t you see that tree blowed if I can

officer said you’re having me on



realised what’s up & got cold feet

waste of time your job in civvie street

waiter Sir all right you’re out who’s next





kiss like his ass


whooping for cough the president’s off

on his rant again who knows what’s next

don’t you love him madly he’s so cute

tells like the truth



anarchy rules it’s the US way

supersize a slice of apple pie

melt some cheese on top with café crème

kick your shoes off



stink the place out no one really cares

European airs don’t cut it here

matey limey frog you with 2 heads

take the back stairs



know what's really cool in the White House

scratching ass where other presidents

played the fool to foreign delegates

this guy’s no stool



hell of course there’ll be a second term

book the Ritz & sell the coupons on

tell you what to up the odds again

let out he’s dead
 
 
 
letters of marque

should I say for every Elgin ten
Byrons paced the decks of British ships
coveting the loot of warring states

privates from Penzance to John o'Groats
sailed the azure main in George's name
dragon killing though their grail was French

humans as illegal cargo they'd
run aloft then straight along the plank
who would know what had become of them

colour made no difference for black
yellow brown or white alike as shark
bait their bodies were convenient

Britons never could be slaves it seems
cruel to those who didn’t have to fight
Johnny French to rule the Seven Seas

no blink!