I got some tissues with my coffee yesterday
and last week I got a lady's handkerchief !
Instant coffee -
is that what causes my colds ?
Jill
climbed hill
with Phil
saw mill
in rill
on hill
Sails still
Pinned
no wind
Which sought
they'd bought
Jill
gave Phil
the bill
for mill
in rill
on hill
Nought
he thought
did Phil
of bill
For two
would do
Jill
felt ill
in mill
in rill
on hill
Phil
gave Jill
a pill
Not pure
no cure
She cried
she died
Phil
buried Jill
in mill
in rill
on hill
Went home
to Rome
with Salom-
e
Little changes in the country© GERALD ENGLAND
Tillage of the earth
provides merely a scrap of living
But the face is of one resigned
to the receipt of scraps
Half-piercing eyes
can see beyond the superficial
But the hands are much
much too old and wrinkled
to stretch out
at certain rebuff
Years of setback
harvests ruined by too much rain
or too much sun
interspersed with bumper years
of fine harvests
good wine to drink
and hope for the future
have combined to form
this heavy brow
and old grey beard
wondering just how many warm summers
and how many winters
are yet to be endured
For little changes good or bad
in the country
Have you ever watched a snail
crawl up the back of an elephant ?
She'd asked me how it was going
It was one of those days
when you've worked three times as hard as you usually do
but for all the results
you might have done (perhaps better had you done)
nothing
The snail had almost reached the top
The elephant moved slightly
The snail
fell
off
Glasgow never had been my home!
My home
was elsewhere;
but I did admit to living
there.
There were times when I would almost
have called the city
mine,
but I was constantly reminded
that I was a foreigner
in that city.
There was a lack of communication
which lay
not in speech,
nor even
nationality!
It lay perhaps
in the dust of the streets;
in the halves and half-pints;
in the pseudo-religious cult of football;
in the crumbling tenements:
it lay ingrained
in the superficial.
Deep in the hearts of the city people
there was perhaps
no difference
between they
and I.
Glasgow was not my home,
but I did admit to living there.
In the centre of the town© GERALD ENGLAND
by the main east-west road
it stands;
Victorian-looking at the front
but very modern at the back
by Mayor's Walk and Friarwood
stretching from the Valley Gardens
to the nurseries where liquorice was cultivated
but not any more.
Inside - a mass of corridors,
lifts to the fourth floor and fifth basement,
maternity wards, children's wards, Casualty ward,
offices and kitchens,
X-ray units,
Out-patients'.
A constant hubbub of people surround the walls,
doctors, nurses, matron, specialists,
ambulance-men, office-staff, cleaners and caterers,
radiographers, pathologists, and of course
there are patients as well.
thought it would break my heart© GERALD ENGLAND
but you didn't care
you left allthesame
o i went
just like we'd planned
a friend went with me
but he had to be back early
then it rained
o yes how it rained
and how it rained
i had my umbrella
i didn't get wet
you'd have liked me to get wet
or perhaps you think i'm wet enough already
yes
i admit it
it wasn't the same without you...
but i wouldn't say it was worse
To be what we are not© GERALD ENGLAND
or not to be
that which we are
To be proud of our failure
making nought of our success
To tear with the blunt end
of a scalpel
and meanwhile cut our finger
To howl in horror of the little pinprick
yet bear a crushed foot
as if twere nought
To make brass
and then spend more
on shifting the muck
It's these belie
yet in confusion compound
the Yorkshireman
© Gerald England
Upstream–-
The bridge,
The wharf
The town
The noise
Of the throng
Of factories
Of fun!
Downstream---
out into the coldness of the sea
a vast emptiness
of roaring wave!
Rio acima----
a ponte,
o porto
a cidade
o barulho
do povo
das fabricas
do divertimento!
Rio abaixo
indo a frieza do mar
uma vasta extensao vazia
de ondas rugindo!
In susul apeiGERALD ENGLAND
Podul
Debarcaderul
Orasul
Zgomotul
Multimii
Fabricilor
De Distractii
In josul apei
in raceala marii
o vasta goliciune
de val furtunos.
A laster can by runoster© Gerald England
the moon of Ulf Dar-coster
staphled at Gleanmar,
west of danmore santar.
Li naptered underday nick San
at Inver sin li nulli dan;
san kiptered for some nectar lime
et visited by laminers in ophirkime.
So by and by San mak demise
tey gan the war wen summer please!
San twa equine in lofter had,
jet sich up in the bad:
best twa equine in Inver lay,
none tete-a-tete severed li may;
et Oriental Runoster by San staphle,
li cupped by Sanson li baffle.
Stop© GERALD ENGLAND
Sit down
Think
Do not rush on
Stop
Sit down
quietly
and think
If you have nowhere to go
then please
stay at home
and leave room
for those who know where they are going
to travel there in peace
If you have somewhere to go
then go
and only make diversion
upon a change
of destination
It is an ephemeral life I lead© GERALD ENGLAND
a sort of make believe
where the real things of life
barely exist at all
and where reality is a thin meandering of the mind
The sun is shining with unbounded vigour
on this day this Public Holiday
but I have work to do
which must be done
No holiday for me
I sit in my room and I can listen
to the birds singing through the open window
to the Roses Match being broadcast on the radio
and can recall the now past times
when I too joined the crowd
watching the cricket actually there
lazing in the sun
with nothing to do
These things were real enough then
Still they invade my room
But I have my work to do
and that alone is real
Life's mostly a game, said the poor man
That it is, said the rich man
But I won in the end
Won ? But you are poor
I won I am rich
Ah alas how little you have read of the rules
You are the one who lost
I too have my riches
and they are far greater than yours
I have credit in Zurich
The Post Office cashes my cheque
I eat the finest venison of Europe
and drink the best Burgundy
I eat only eggs
and drink only milk
I have servants at my beck and call
No man is my master
The animals in the fields are my only servants
God is my only master
I live in a white mansion
I live in a grey box
I am master of the game
You are just a pawn
I pity you
You are the pawn
I pity you
I have my thoughts of peace
I am too busy making money
to think of peace
I have the sun and the wind
the songs of the birds
the freshness of rain
and the friendship of dogs
I have no time
for such as these
I have riches in my soul
I have no soul
If I had it has died
I shall live when I die
When I die
the game will end
I heard a new word today.
It has two meanings
apparently;
- quite distinct - I am assured.
Musaphobia: dislike of mice
or poetry.
I've often been asked
whether I were man
or mouse.
I can answer that now
for there is a likeness there -
the seeming insignificant
which none-the-less
can frighten the mighty ELEPHANT,
or make women
stand
on chairs
& lift
their skirts.
Yes the poem does have affinity with
the mouse.
It is late
and I have a hard day tomorrow
I should be in bed
for I am well tired
but thoughts are bottled up inside me
and I must release them
before I sleep
The cork fits tight
No matter how hard I pull
I cannot release it
Tomorrow is more than a new day
It is a new month
the month of May
But what does that mean to me?
There are few celebrations in the city
one takes notice of
There are too many celebrations
to notice the particular
My two eyes,
my two tired, drooping eyes
have never gazed upon a Maypole
I cannot imagine the revelry
of Richmond in sixteen-sixty
with the Sheriff and the Bishop of Hereford
joining in with the throng —
the May games
the morrice-dancing
the drinking of sack
the Robin Hood play —
The cork still lies in the bottle's neck
I take the bottle
I smash it Crash
The thoughts spill out onto the paper
disappear out of sight
over the table's edge
My mind is emptied
I have lost my thoughts
At least I can go to sleep in peace
There is a choir buzzing in my head
an harmonious choir
thinking
thinking -
it is thinking
one thought
and it is buzzing
in my head
This thought is not my thought
It is thought
by the choir
thinking in my head
I am not responsible
for this thought
I am only responsible for my own thoughts
Let the choir think
I shall not head their thoughts
Their thoughts are not my thoughts
They are not
and they shall not be
It is hard to resist
the thinking of the choir in my head
The choir which is thinking in my head
is thinking of a chess problem
on a train
jumping a brook
Their thoughts
are worth
a thousand pounds
a word
Alice thinks in pictures
The sun is shining this April spring day
the park is full of people in a throng
there are lovers walking hand in hand
youngsters playing football all among
the dogs that vie with each other for the ball
students from the University are lying on the grass
swotting up their French verbs and German syntax
the ducks on the lake are being fed by enfants en masse
though most of the bread gets stolen by the pigeons
everyone here is happy as the sun beats down
everyone that is except one, lonely, uniformed man
the park-keeper sports a very black frown
There are no dreams in the deepest sleep
for deepest sleep is purest rest
and I need rest most of all from my dreams
which are always of the restless kind
My dreams are dreamt when only half asleep
the hypnotic state of the physiological psychologists
when the electroencephalograph traces a jagged line
the jumbled signals of multitudinous nerves
recalling images past-remembered
but long forgotten
Half-remembered names of half-remembered faces
flash across my dreaming eyes
ideas and false linkages
possible predictions for the future
The cessation of a heartbeat,
a quiet passage perhaps in bed,
accident, suicide, murder foul -
Death is in the living inbred
The living are not slow to learn
the short lesson of Life's threadlike spin
woven into a fine mesh of cloth
only the scissors genuine
Mycologists hunt DNA
in fungi cells on plates of agar --
from children who tear their toys apart,
they’re not removed so very far
Medical men must needs define
that they see as part of nature's plan;
sophists argue the implications
of organ transplants man to man
Boredom’s the root of all evil
The Devil works on an idle mind
and moulds in demoniacal form
all empty heads that he can find
Death gets so knotted up with Life
that all becomes boredom in the main
and if not an intellectual
one simply has to use one's brain
Meaning’s sought in the meaningless
Frustration then the end of research
A jump, rope, knife, gun, poison, drugs
and Life again left in the lurch
Those who will neither yield nor join
must needs beat (out the living daylights?)
and murderers classically make plans
during the long, dark, wintry nights
The foul, bloody, unnatural
are not to Halloween's night confined
Though it is light outside, the darkness
is in the night-time of the mind
A slogan a day
keeps the electorate at bay
I long to walk the way again
where in childhood days I walked
I remember how often I went
along the side of the river past the weir
over Low Green Fields by the River Went
through lovely Brocodale to the sewage works
but forgetting that turned off
along the bridal path to Thorpe,
to Badsworth and its church
and its row of tall poplar trees
lining the Royd Moor Road -
the landmark which seemed so full of majesty
when viewed from my bedroom window as a child
But now I pass them in haste
South to the bypass then turning North
Beyond Badsworth is Upton Beacon
relic of a now bygone age
when fires warned of Vikings in the Humber -
part of a fiery chain of beacons bright,
but modern telegraph wires are more efficient
and so they ought to be, encroaching
upon the landscape as they do, but they serve a
good purpose
More often though I left Upton alone
and followed the road through Thorpe
past the Kennels and down the steep descent
to perhaps the most prettiest village
in the whole of South Yorks.
now quiet and free
No lorries churn through Wentbridge now
It is good
for its beauty can be enjoyed
standing in safety on the bridge
watching the Went flow swiftly on its way to the
Don
not so clear and sparkling as it once was
but serene and quiet
unpretentiously offering its unmitigated beauty
I never did get as far as Smeaton
My eastern limit was the Great North Road
(Great is not my adjective)
now spanning the Went on a slender
tall, and even beautifully flowing, viaduct -
a symbol of modern progress
the Age of Road Transport, the Civil Engineer, the
Bridge-builder
It is a symbol to me too
but a sad one
It is the symbol of an exit
a flight Northwards
away from my childhood
to where I must go
to 'fulfill myself'
I have left home and gone away
Returning for holidays is not the same
for always I must
leave again
and then in a lorry or a car or whatever lift I
hitch
I must pass over
that viaduct
spanning the river of my childhood
Ironically
the best view of the river Went
the best that is known to me
is from the top of that viaduct -
the Went Valley Viaduct
five miles from the motorway
and five from Ferrybridge
But who stops ?
How many know that view ?
One in a thousand
of the drivers who pass it in haste ?
I know of it
I shall never forget
It is the river of my childhood
I know of it
I shall never forget
That is all that matters
The taps are dripping all over the city;
Ladybower is running dry
because its waters do supply
the taps that drip in Sheffield city.
It's no use asking the landlord to fix it;
the rent is all he calls for;
he's got his own house down in Dore;
he'd rather you move than come fix it.
He raises the rent with every new tenant.
We've no choice but live like pigs;
there's an acute shortage of digs -
on the landlord we are dependant.
In Broomhill and Walkley, Nether Edge, Darnall,
we're jammed in with rat and fly,
the taps drip, the floor's never dry,
Crookes, Heeley and down in Ecclesall.
O for a room and a tap with a washer,
a dry room and a clean floor
without draughts from under the door
- above all - a tap with a washer!
Ten minutes ago it was last year
Now it's a New Year
So what ?
The clock strikes midnight
We take down the old calendar
But what is the point
of all this celebration ?
There is no difference
between this night
and any other cold, wintry night
A year has passed
but years pass all the time
not just at one specific moment
decreed, not by nature,
but by the men who devised the calendar
The passage of time
is not something that can be escaped
Time itself ceases to have meaning for me
but yet I write
with an urgency
suggesting that time is short
We all must change
for otherwise
time will change us
whether we like it or not
Alice was demure and O
so sensible that she really put
cut to the idea which the mad
sad Sir Harry made so clear at the
tea for if no-one could make
cake in a time so Cheshire-like
Mike could always be counted on to
do what the Queen and her head
led with their minds so surely spent
went without saying of course if anyone should
wood take from the tree that the cat
sat on whilst suckling the pig
jig the Irish griffin danced around
sounding the gong at all comers and
hand out the orders the mirror to make
break repair mend tear sew
lo there came in a jiffy or less
mess so muddy and full of mud
would shatter the illusion of a
bay horse or Shetland pony of origin
in the large country house
Rose the girl from Wales
mails the letters of congratulation from
someone to the bride
ride the wedding coach and four
for the sunshine honeymoon
June the month of the heather bells
quells the sound of the drinking men
when the hole in the ceiling grew
too small in area to mend
end
I stood and watched as the lights played
on the waters of the Kelvin;
the lights of houses on Dumbarton Road
in the background
It was still dark
but sun was beginning to dispel
the frostiness of night
In the open park — a beautiful scene —
the bare-limbed trees standing against the sky
the cold winds reminding
- it is December -
I did not stand for long
but wrapping my scarf
securely round my neck
walked on
At every step the sky
lightened as the sun climbed
The only other person I passed in the park
did not return my "Good Morning!" — I supposed
that was what came of living in a city
or perhaps he was just cold
and not in a very good mood
I walked into the lights of Sauchiehall Street
where cars were already on the move
and pedestrian numbers increased
as the small hand crept towards eight
And the darkness was soon all gone
'Day' was the term in use
The city was awake
but I was falling back to sleep
Mohammad Mohammad sat in his room
in the Palace of a Thousand Loving Nights
in the Street of a Thousand Dead Virgins
Mohammad Mohammad thought to himself
of the mountain which stood on the other side of the river
So he sent for his Chief Messenger
- Go tell yonder mountain to come unto me -
The messenger returned to Mohammad Mohammad several days after
- Oh Great Mohammad Mohammad the mountain has sent reply -
- The mountain will not come to Mohammad
Mohammad must go to the mountain -
Mohammed Mohammed was not angry
He did not tear his clothes
He did not beat his breast
- The mountain shall be brought unto me -
Next day there started on the journey to the mountain
fourteen lorries two bulldozers and the foreman's mark ten jag.
They worked all day and they worked all night
The lorries journied to and fro
and in forty days and thirty-nine nights
the mountain stood in the garden of the palace
If Mohammad will not go to the mountain
the mountain may be brought to Mohammad
It was just the other day.
Bonfire night the fifth of November.
I went down myself
to where the suburb children
had built their bonfire
and as I watched the effigy
slowly being burnt,
I thought to myself I ought not to be here -
it is a Yorkshireman whom they burn.
My thoughts floated back
to the little close in Petergate
where in 1570
in the Church of St. Michael-le-Belfry
behind the great Minster of York,
Guy Fawkes was baptised.
And as a rocket shot out of a one-pint milk-bottle,
shooting high over tenement roofs,
I thought I ought not to be here -
it is a Yorkshireman whom they burn.
My thoughts escaped
to the Old Hall at Scotton
where Guy's childhood was spent.
There, in those rooms, did he plot
with the Brothers Wright?
And I thought of their home,
Ploughland, on the Spurn Road
where Holderness cocks a snoot at the sea.
Just then they lit some Roman candles
and the explosion of a banger
woke me and arrested my thoughts.
Then I remembered, I ought not to be here -
it is a Yorkshireman whom they burn.
My thoughts escaped once more;
down South to Kettering and Newton Hall
where met the unlucky thirteen,
six Yorkshiremen and seven others,
to plan the annihilation of King and Parliament for ever,
with thirty-two hundredweight of powder.
And as the bonfire cast shadows on the ground
I remembered I ought not to be here -
it is a Yorkshireman whom they burn.
Oh how I pictured,
as the body on the fire
began to disintegrate in the flames,
the sufferings felt by Guy
as he neither lay nor sat nor stood
in the Cell of Little Ease until,
on the 31st day of January
in the year sixteen hundred and six,
he was executed,
hung, drawn and quartered.
I knew as I watched the dying embers of the fire,
I ought not to be here -
it is a Yorkshireman whom they burn.
Prayer is a two-way conversation
I pray to God
I confess my sins
I ask for forgiveness
Then I listen
for the voice of God
and God will speak to me
He will lead me forward into life
He will be my guide
He will indicate the correct path to take
The main part of prayer
is silence
listening
waiting
for a word from God
God communicates to us
through prayer
for prayer is a two-way conversation
Once
I was dead
dead and dead
and dead indeed
But now I live
I have been raised
from the realm of the dead
to the land of the living
I have emptied myself
of the dead matter
which lay within me
blocking the passage of truth
I have filled this empty shell
with Christ
He dwells inside me
I am his
and his alone
I thought it could be done
but now I know it can not
Once you are dead
you are dead
and dead indeed
I thought I could be resurrected
I thought I could kill death
But you cannot live by dying
Two deaths do not make a birth
I thought that he who raised Lazarus
could also raise me
but the dead cannot raise the dead
and I have killed him
I drove the nails into his hands
I hung him on the cross
upon the hill called Calvary
outside the city walls
of Jerusalem
I am also responsible for my own death
I committed mental suicide
I committed the unforgivable sin
of rebelling against the Holy Ghost
Yet the Devil has not purchased my soul
I cannot go into Hell
but neither can I reach Heaven
and I do not believe in Purgatory
so where am I ?
I am a ghost without a castle to haunt
a prophet without a prophesy to preach
a magician without a spell to weave
I am still not alive
I am still dead
God is not to be found on the mountain-top
The view is not of insecurity
Security to the insecure seems as insecurity;
the mountain it is which is paltry
His absence from the world
is merely the illusion of blind men
He is not the absentee landlord
He created everything
He built nothing
He is un-religious
God is not a guy
who lives in the sky
or on mountain-tops
He is everything to do with me and you
He made the world
but we forgot
and do not listen to the orders
sent from his throne
His crown
is a crown of thorns,
his throne a bramble bush
We called him insane
and locked him away
up in the sky
on the top of the mountain
And if you want
to break his laws
do, but remember,
he does care
and did care
and if was insane
then better his madness
than our sanity
God's not a guy
who lives in the sky
He's everything to do with me and you
If Virgil in his genius
had written Homer's Iliad
Homer would have killed us
with his version of what Virgil had
The passed-on have not passed on
the living are not alive
soon the time will come
when time will not be
and the complete will be incomplete
the end has begun
continuance is discontinued
the truthful lie
the lying prove true
they are coming
but they won't stay long
soon be gone
and what is this heaven
which men call hell ?
it is the life we live
the death we die
the future is past
the past not come
and as for the present
it is absent
and all is nothing
nothing is all
love is a hateful thing
the straight is crooked
the crooked straight
and the real paradox is
that there is no paradox
I
Here comes
a thing new
It has been before
It will come again
Each time it is new
The dead are buried
deep in their graves
We offer a salute to life
The future is held
in the future
Fortune-tellers do not last
Walk through the door
Attempt the course
II
The year's second month
brings always the snow
deep or shallow
crisp or slushy
even or dispersed
Go forward
Do not stay behind
The future awaits
lies ahead
The affirmative
is correct
Utterance
of the negative
is to be condemned
Life abundant is
Death no more is
She alive is
III
Look
Take heed of the mad
Sanity is insane
Try to do the impossible
and only the possible
is achieved
but even failure
is some achievement
The air is sad
and hard
No knife can cut through
A voice calls
needs must away
IV
Watch the rains beat
upon the ground
making wet
the street beneath
Foul the smell
Foul the smelt
Foul the smeller
But foul
to the foul
is sweet
The passage is blocked
there is no escape
Only the darkness
hides
what the light
reveals
for the darkness
is all around the light
though can not
extinguish it
V
Come Spring
Joyous Spring
Here
for but one season
It will not wait
must journey on
towards Summer
to return
again
after the lapse
of another three
It is close
nearer than you think
at hand
ready to swoop
Hear me
I speak only the truth
I cannot hide the truth
Listen
VI
June is a special month
coming between
May and July
The sixth month of the year
Search
What is it we find?
The one?
The other?
The gentle moon rises
Always it rises
in the late evening
throwing some light
upon the dark
But also prejudges
are served up with chips
on unsalted shoulders
with no vinegar
The axes grind deep
VII
The sun
is shining down
upon the earth
upon the faces
of both the good
and the evil
The beginning
is long past
the ending
not yet in sight
It is the middle of the road
the most treacherous
time of all
The mind blurs
That dazed look
is the inevitable
the price of uncertainty
of groping
of wonder
All new grows old
in the passage of time
But the determining factor
is the rate of ageing
VIII
Away
away from the world
Routine left behind
Not cure —
recuperation
Walk along the shore
Watch the waves
break
upon the rocks
on the sand
My ears ring
I hear a call
which comes to me
from somewhere
Who calls?
I know no-one
But my ears
do not lie
Yet I know
no-one
IX
The leaves fall
from the trees
Autumn
casts a spell
of brown
over a once-green
landscape
There is a short time
only
now
to wait
The wheat
the corn
is collected all in
But the main harvest
is gathered in
unseen
without tell-tale sheaves
A song
a hymn
is raised to heaven
The fields were white
but not quite
X
Return
The holiday is over
Work awaits doing
The Devil waits
with his demons
But is it in Hell?
The corners
hide shadows
dark
menacing
cold
evil
Things are unseen
for sight
cannot penetrate
where is no light
XI
The end is in sight
creeping nearer
every second
And sixty make a minute
Do not put me away
Sanity seems insane
but it is not
so
The bend
has not been turned
The crooked road
runs straight
I am sad
I weep
for myself
I weep
for others
I weep
for my tears
XII
The aged limbs cease
The heavy breathing stops
The pump dries
The lungs collapse
The old man dies
The thighs open
The womb releases its catch
The mouth cries
The eyes see
First earthly morn
No beat is lost
The babe is born
The end
is no end
but a reversal
to the beginning
The old
is made new
Christ was born
that he might die
and impart
the message
that we
must die
in order
to be born
For the past few days
I've been feeling happy
but I'm unhappy
in my happiness
because
I don't know why I'm happy
and anyway
I know
from past experience
that my happiness
will not last,
that soon
something will happen
to make me unhappy
I would be waiting
all the time
for something to happen
to bring me out of my happiness
and make me unhappy
I wish that that something
whatever it is
would happen
and make me unhappy
for I'd know
from past experience
that my unhappiness
would not last
Other men
wonder about me
because my girlfriend
is fat and ugly
Indeed
she is the ugliest girl
I've ever seen
She's got a middle-aged spread
at only twenty-two
Her legs are fat
and crooked
Her arms
are the envy of local navvies
But she's my girl
and I love her so
I do not gaze into her eyes
for when we kiss
I close my eyes
her thick arms
know exactly
how to embrace me
When other men
in their foolish wisdom
ask me
what I see in her
I just tell them
- I
don't use my eyes
to make love
Another part of my body
is far better
equipped
- It's easy - said the mountaineer condescending
- provided you remember don't look down -
said I - that's all very well ascending
but what about when you're coming down -
I've been to Derby and Nottingham,
Notting Hill - London, The Gorbals - Glasgow,
Stratford on Avon and Cheltenham
but I find nothing wherever I go.
In Caithness - Wick, in Cornwall - Polperro,
along the moorland and along the shore,
but everywhere brings me a bitter blow
for I've not yet found what I'm looking for.
I've travelled to Henley and Beckenham
through wind and rain and sun and sleet and snow,
by train, by car, by ship, by bus, by tram -
all the way from Penzance to Thurso.
For all my travelling I've nothing to show.
In every town I knock on every door.
I've grown tired of hunting high and low
for I've not yet found what I'm looking for.
I have even been into Birmingham.
To anywhere in Wales the way I know -
an expert on travel is what I am -
Pembroke, Chester, Whitby, Morpeth, Kelso,
Oban, Sheffield, Lincoln, Oxford, Truro -
but I don't want to go on any more;
I'm weary and my heart is filled with woe
for I've not yet found what I'm looking for
ENVOI
Prince, won't you tell me just where I should go?
Prince tell me what the future holds in store.
I drive fast but the pace of life is slow
for I've not yet found what I'm looking for.
In prison
for thee I long
Yet free
I long for thee
Free as a bird
I long to be heard
Nothing is new
I long for you
With you
without you
this is my song
- For thee I long -
I long
to belong
to thee
and thee to me
Everyone's going to heaven
Sing Hallelujah! Sing Hallelujah!
You only have to do good deeds
supplying others' needs
Everyone's going to heaven
Sing Hallelujah! Sing Hallelujah!
The man in the shop who sells us soap
will no more in the darkness grope
Everyone's going to heaven
Sing Hallelujah! Sing Hallelujah!
All good children say your prayers
when you have gone up the stairs
Everyone's going to heaven
Sing Hallelujah! Sing Hallelujah!
You soldiers on the battlefield
don't buy a ticket - there is no need
Everyone's going to heaven
Sing Hallelujah! Sing Hallelujah!
You don't even have to be a Christian
just be a good man or good woman
Everyone's going to heaven
Sing Hallelujah! Sing Hallelujah!
As long as you repent in
the end, don't worry about sin
Everyone's going to heaven
Sing Hallelujah! Sing Hallelujah!
Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!
Sing Hallelujah! Sing Hallelujah!
Everyone's going to heaven
If everyone's going to heaven
Sing Hallelujah! Sing Hallelujah!
I want to go to Hell!
Little boy, on the seashore,
little boy, digging a hole in the sand,
do you know about more
than what is in your hand ?
Little boy, digging a hole,
little boy, running to the sea,
do you know your goal
is something that can never be ?
Little boy, filling your bucket,
little boy, running to and fro,
have you seen the big wide net
which will not let you go ?
Little boy, trying to entrap the sea
in one small hole in the ground,
what is it you can see ?
Where is it you are bound ?
Oh, little boy, my little boy,
how foolish, yet how wise,
to treat the ocean as your toy
and never listen to its cries.
Little boy, you cannot trap the ocean,
for it will leak away unseen,
and then, little boy, and then,
only you will ever know it's been.
The silence of the world is all around
yet the sound
comes back in voices not yet known.
Throw the silver-white stone
into the water of life's destiny.
It will be
in the countless years to come
a reminder to some
of these years then gone
and one
not gold nor lead nor other metal -- pick
but age of plastic
the plastic substitute.
The tree's root,
the flower's stem,
from them
comes the waking dawn
tomorrow's silent morn.
Today go to school
Today you learn
Tomorrow leave school
Tomorrow you earn
Why did you come? Why did you come?
that evening seven years ago?
All the trees were covered in snow
You had no money for your taxi fare
and you laddered your stocking on a broken stair
You drank of whole bottle of very best sherry
You called me "Mon Cheri!"
when I dropped the picture on my toe
that evening seven years ago,
why did you come? why did you come?
Why did you come? Why did you come?
that evening seven years ago?
Handel's second flute concerto
was issuing forth from the gramophone
and neither of us that night ever felt alone
Though we said very little what we said meant a lot
for our passions were hot
I wished in my heart you hadn't to go
that evening seven years ago,
why did you come? why did you come?
Why did you come? Why did you come?
that evening seven years ago?
I'll never rest until I know
You came at nine and did not leave till eight
Bacon, egg and sausage was the breakfast you ate
It wasn't to wish me a happy December
No! Wait! I remember!
Of course! You came to tune the piano
that evening seven years ago,
That's why you came! That's why you came!
Friendship's smile is often dry
for behind a warmth doth lie
No need for gifts of shining gold
What value do these hold ?
Gifts seek a return
and wise men discern
Return then is not
and that's the giver's lot
Friendship's smile need not be dry
for behind a warmth doth lie
A gift though barely touching strife
the token of a life
No return is sought
'Tis not even thought
but friendship is got
and that's the giver's lot
Love is dead
Love is dead ?
Can love be dead ?
How can love be dead ?
Love is life
and life is love
If love is dead
then life is dead
Can life be dead ?
Born into this world was I,
not of my free choice, but by
an act of love removed from all
thoughts of me, but yet I came,
without any call
to join the game.
As I wander through this life,
I do encounter much strife,
for which no-one has asked, but still
it comes to disturb the mind,
and put through the mill,
all who are kind
I travel from day to day
a rough and barren way
that leads to where I do not know,
but I still do journey on
finding as I go
that life has gone
Sometimes I stop for a rest
and I examine the quest;
is life really as meaningless
as to me it now would seem?
and is happiness
more than a dream?
An answer I cannot give;
strange is the life that I live,
to try to win when others lose,
putting trust in that I hold
no orthodox views
but ones quite bold
One day I know I shall die
no matter how I cry;
in birth and death I have no say,
live today, tomorrow dead
Here I shall not stay
nor make my bed.
It's raining harder than ever before
and I left my umbrella on a train
The sun hasn't shone for a week or more
I sometimes think that I'm going insane
The one-way system is taxing my brain
and my seven-year car is far from new
I think my health is going down the drain
I'm so confused I don't know what to do
The policeman said that I broke the law
when I overtook on the inside lane
and the hefty fine really hurt me sore
It makes me wonder if the law is sane
The man who stole all that fish up in Tain
got off without paying a single sou
The whole affair's put me under a strain
I'm so confused I don't know what to do
My life is becoming a dreadful bore
From tobacco and beer I now refrain
but whenever I close my eyes I snore
It really seems to go against the grain
I am losing sleep so my wife Elaine
is planning to buy some drug that is new
for the last lot I've taken them in vain
I'm so confused I don't know what to do
ENVOI
Any advice at all I'll entertain
Please help me, Prince, won't you give me a clue ?
Tell me what will remove this wretched stain
I'm so confused I don't know what to do
A theatre in Copenhagen
is the setting for this tale
List' to this tale and then
Learn its meaning without fail
A new comedy true to life
the clown dressed as a Bishop
a whore his faithful wife
and the laughter could not stop
Twas halfway through the second show
a better show there'd not been
in Denmark they do trow
Twas last that many have seen
Next day the show they did not hold
for backstage a fire broke
The clown the public told
They died laughing at his joke
Last night I lay asleep and dreamt
I found myself in the seventh heaven
and all around the gods were stood
Apollo in their midst
Apollo he did speak to me
- make one wish and it shall be granted thee
Do you wish for wealth or power
for wisdom or for health
to be surrounded by fine maids ?
Whate'er it is you wish you shall receive -
- I do not wish for health or wealth -
thus to the gods I spoke
-I've but one wish and this it is
That the laugh may always be on my side -
The gods they would not could not speak
but soon the silence broke
Apollo first and then the rest
the gods they laughed and laughed out long and loud
the gods they laughed and did not speak
so then I did awake
Now I know that the gods have taste
for most unsuitable it would have been
if the gods had gravely told me
- Thy wish it is granted -
I fain would know who she might be
pervades my sleep each night
Is she the moon that shines above
the sun's uprising light ?
A mere reflection of the mind
by cogitation wrought ?
An image by my soul designed
disclosed to me by thought ?
A form by willing spirit drawn
my hopes to realise ?
One which my sight should want for to
perceive in fleshly guise ?
Might she exist in far off land
or even nearer home ?
Perhaps she nightly dreams of me
Oh could she read my poem !
Perhaps it be "elle n'existe pas"
a wrathful demon's scheme
to lure me to regretful deeds
asleep and while I dream !
