Time

Time slips by easily from watch to eye,
We wear manicled fetish around swollen wrist,
Where time does no longer dance the quick, quick slow,
But is charted, measured and dissected.

9 to 5 and 7tilleleven, in evening times
of half an hour we watch those east end lives,
until we retire tired for 8 maybe ten hour hands to tick,
and tock, deadly dark flouresently lit.

Until alarmed majors bark orders for a new day,
Big ben is not my friend but my jailor.

Crisis of Faith

My absence from this blog has been due to a profound dark night of the soul. What was north is now south. Ground which was sure, now trembles. Fissures crack and splutter molten earth into new foreign lands. All because of one man. Voltaire had his crisis over the Lisbon earthquake. I have my crisis over Harold 'Hazza' Bishop.

Oh Harry, Harry Bishop what have you gone and done,
You've left the salvos and your iced bun,
Your tuba lies dormant, unplayed and rusted,
and gone is my faith in you, the one i trusted.

Stricken by grief, from beyond the grave
did words come from your son, dorky dave,
Kill him off dad, for god's sake,
and you listened and forgot to bake,
your quiches, and assorted confectionary.

You lost your memory once and salvo badge,
Until brought back by the love of fair madge,
But now you've legged it to tazzy,
and all it lost, all is lost,

You're knatty oven gloves cannot hide,
The fruits of sin so hideously wide,
You've gone and strangled the pirate robbo,
THen served him muffins, evil lightly aglow.

Hebel, Hebel.