Millennium Dream

So many years since we woke, and lured you
from your beds with the promise of something special.

So long since we propped you in front of the telly
to watch the big clocks tick and the world light up.

Your ooz and arrz soon lost their vowels as you
dropped off again, on the sofa.

Sorry, we carried you upstairs and
popped you back into your own warm beds.

Later that century, over breakfast, we wondered
why we all felt so grizzly.

Birthday Cards

His birthday cards still bear football themes,
like his shins still bear the scars,
reminding him he’ll never play again,

except in his dreams, where the left wing
of his brain remembers all the goals he’s
ever scored, for all the teams he’s ever

played for, on all the parks pitches he’s
ever played on. And the right wing
of his brain, turns them into match winners

at Wembley, or Maine Road, making
blue veined old men in the stands and on the
terraces, very happy.

 
Christmas Story

On Christmas Day in the morning
I saw no ships come sailing in,
only a camel tripping a land mine.

I heard no herald angels singing,
only women wailing at the fallen
walls of their razed villages.

Shepherds took to the fields
with their flocks, sore afraid of the
awesome might of bulldozers.

And dismayed gentlemen outside
inns with no rooms, wisely considered
taking alternative routes home.
 

The Man With The Bottle Green Van

I’ll give him a lift if you like, said the man
with the bit of a lisp and the bottle green van,
it’s no trouble at all, I go straight past the gate
I’ll drop him off for you, make sure he’s not late.

Are you sure it’s no bother? That’s ever so kind,
I’ll be ever so grateful, if you’re sure you don’t mind.
the baby’s upstairs with a terrible cough,
it’s been bedlam round here since their dad buggered off.

I’ve got washing and cooking and cleaning to do
and a mountain of ironing to plough my way through,
so that’d be great, you’re such a nice man,
hurry up now, our Steven, jump into his van.
Now do as you’re told, make sure you behave,
just think of the time and the money we’ll save.

I remember that morning, the chill of the weather,
the swish of the wipers, the smell of the leather,
and the smile on the lips of that kindly old man,
as he swung back the doors of his bottle green van.

I thought of the time and the money being saved,
and I did what he said and made sure I behaved,
and nobody asked, so nobody knew,
what went on up that side-street parked just out of view.
And nobody questioned the kindly old man,
as he climbed in the back of his bottle green van.


Christmas

Down the town centre a tipsy Santa,
scales the Council's Norway Spruce
in a cloud of beery breath.

He sparks up a fag on a fairy light
and salutes to the yuletide crowd,
who cheer as the tree tips; he slips,
the red coat rips, the glowing butt flips
from his lips as he shouts for Jesus
and his beard floats off
towards the cenotaph.

Phones twinkle as revellers capture
the steaming man, stretch - 
ing to catch the falling star, identity
and beer belly brutally exposed.

Needles pepper the frozen flower beds
and the air is filled with the smell of sap,
the crunch of branches, and the
splintering of the Lion's Club crib,
as it breaks his fall, and his leg.

That Dress

I'm ironing 'that dress', that
'dress from the charity shop' dress,
that delicate, floaty, 'how was it possible to
come across such a snazzy dress at
such an un-classy address' dress. That

'mind of its own' dress, that
'absolutely impossible for anyone 
to press' dress, that
'help I'm in distress' dress,
'toiling under duress' dress,
'getting in a terrible mess' dress, that
'now I know how it was possible to find
such a snazzy dress at
sunch an un-classy address' dress.
Yes, I'm ironing 'that dress'.
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