A Night Visitation
(or a severe case of indigestion)

Written for my fellow comrades in respect of them having to endure the Sunday chicken legs which were rumoured to be imported from China.

As I lay in bed one stormy night
quite lost to Morphus, this despite
was sudden woke from blissful sleep
to cries that seemed to beg, entreat.

'Twas on the witching hour they came,
I must confess and to my shame
beneath the pillow placed my head
and asked myself “Can I be dead?”

To hear such dreadful crowing speech
so in a passion begged, “I do beseech
please take your awful voice else-ware.”
The cheek of it, my bottom bare

on twisted sheets, in fear sat trumping loud.
Thus gaining courage pulled the shroud
that acts as curtain to my cell
and there it stood, a ghostly cockerel straight from Hell.

He strutted in and eyeing me
said “Take note of this and you will see”.
(He not a single feather had
but eyes aflame as if were mad).

“I travelled here from China where
were plucked and fried so do beware,
I see you've thrown my leg into the bin
no bite partaken on my shin”.

“To think I died without a tear
and now am standing without gear
quite naked 'part from some vile sauce,
no wonder that my crowing's hoarse”.

“Begone I shrieked you ghastly shade
do cover flesh Old Nick has flayed.
I'll not another bird eat for a course
from now I'll stick to tender steak of horse”.

“So thus he turned and bowed his head
I have no care, I'm of the dead
as millions of my fellows are …
to think I travelled thus so far

to be insulted by a con'
I'll make you sing a different song.
No more you'll sleep!”

Alas from then, first morning light
I rise to give my mates a fright,
to crow, disturb each bugger 'till they weep
then back once more to counting sheep.

So thus I'm doomed to ever sigh
left longing for a decent shepherd's pie.


(To dance to in staid form)

Gossip Grundy's Whitehouse Band …

Two leading players, apart in time
yet Jassing the same old tune.
Wind-bag Grundy knits the horn
(with dulling tone) its naked form
clothed-cosy lest the modest swoon
to see such brazen, brassy shine.

Now heed the matron Mary's sting
in G, but not beloved Bach!
His sexual gate, her airless scrape,
she bows (unrhythmic prude) inverted rape.
So vile viol, let maidens hark
her tuneless notes played off the mark …

… your hot tunes I'll drill
as this gives me a thrill
to chill them to death!

The Cast Court

(The V&A)

Cast your eyes upon these effigies, held fast
and yet they lie a-sham; cast
by a craft that moulds mere semblance of truth:
masked falsely-fine as skilful proof.

From floor to roof piled plasters mock,
for surely, here – the strangest prop
of antique parts so made to play
the substitute that mind must weigh.

Their art: each may reveal a shell
as hollow as the time it knell …
or by some trick of make
tell much – if fashion dare to take.

Wake latent memory for the good …
though just as ready, those who would
invest a form when it's but toyed;
see solid where one ought a void.

The Daily Mail

The Daily Male – Its words are well beyond the pale.
No doubt its office works from Hell …
The Devil's first to get each issue in his posting box,
yes hear the pleasure as he skins this pox.

For each new story tops the last in lies
and if by chance a truth applies
he rages at at the hack who whored his hate,
the writer mumbled, worms, now bate.

The Editor (the predator in chief)
each night he acts as were a thief
and steals the name of truth … He'll
fill his belly with pretence until
it swells like some vile, seeping wen of greed,
a corrupted growth and cancered seed.

So thus the hag is whored, both raped and bled
till words mean little other that the spite he's shed.
The ghost of Streicher, his delight
to see the storm of print take flight …

But then, as like, the Devil's feature page will cost him dear
for Yvel evil's paid with coin of fear.

The Eclipse of the Sun

How odd, the inmates 'read' the Sun
whose editor, no doubt, would rather have them hung.

I'm told its mainly tit and sport
that make them buy this shit; abort
all common sense and sound advice
so shackle all with words of vice.

To prove their paper's truly blue
they mouth the gutter's whoring stew
or if inclined, those fools that bought
their weasel-words without a thought …

thus fill the space between their ears.

I doubt the Sun could find its peers

its sunk so low in man's estate:
it much prefers to talk of rape
while raping each and every one
whose thick enough to read the Sun!

(If you look on the Sun for too long you will
certainly become intellectually blind).

The Judge
(To the late Mr Justice L..... QC)

Known by his fellow Judges as fat arsed L.....

This 'claret Judge' paunched , wink and wig
he subtle; speaks with words that jig
a wanton wisdom – slyly hurl
(though seemed impartle) partle pearls
of telling hate …

defendant quake!

In 'righteous' pomp, his noble thought
to mock man's misery (dearly bought).
Paid well this Judge but coined by Hell:
do such men, sleeping – ever swell
with just remorse …

wake, choking hoarse?

Their sin through history's grasping pride,
right bedded to that selfish bride
who whore for all (Her passion blind)
too ready grind: once took – they'll find
she vomits back

man's loathsome rack.

Now reeking sits in scarlet pall,
each lesser to his beck and call:
but truth will flout and seek him out
so tip the scales how ere he shout.
Within his breath

there whispers death!