THESE ARE THE THINGS THAT EXASPERATE ME ...

[With apologies to "The Sound of Music"]

Raindrops that spatter all over my glasses,
Grime on my hands when I'm cleaning the brasses,
Trays that won't balance and fall off my knee:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Clingfilm that I cannot peel off my fingers,
Someone who says "I MUST go" and then lingers,
Gourmets who gobble their garlic with glee:
These are the things that exasperate me.

The fork in the bowl when I've washed up the dishes,
Small bones that linger in fillets of fishes,
Folk who drop sugar lumps into my tea:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Items tight sealed into hard plastic blisters,
Bags that are fastened with little wire twisters,
Long traffic queues whose end I cannot see:
These are the things that exasperate me.

Other folks' dogs who dig holes in my garden,
Visiting cats who do things I can't pardon,
Thorns in my fingers I feel but can't see:
These are the things that exasperate me.
Buttons in sets that have one button missing,
People at weddings who go around kissing,
Finding I'm shut in the car with a bee:
These are the things that exasperate me.

Children in playgrounds who scream and keep fighting,
Words that won't come or won't rhyme when I'm writing,
People who are what I wish I could be:
These are the things that exasperate me.

Phone bells that ring and won't let me ignore them,
People who ask me to write verses for them,
Folk who say "Shakespeare? Do tell, who was he?"
These are the things that exasperate me.

Those who make money when writing for profit,
A book written badly that puts me right off it,
Folk who are tiresome - in fact, just like me:
These are the things that exasperate me.

When the sun shines, when the bird sings,
When good news has come,
I think of the things that exasperate me,
And I go on feeling - GLUM!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

WESTGATE WHINGE

(With apologies to Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan.
Tune - The Sergeant’s Song, Pirates of Penzance.)

When I take my daily wander up the Westgate, [Up the Westgate],
I long to use a useful Motor Bus, [Motor Bus],
But the Buses don’t suit my ways up the Westgate, [Up the Westgate],
So this song is written just to make a fuss. [Make a fuss].
When Community-y Taxes, they are needed, [They are needed],
I mourn the lost and useful Motor Bus, [Motor Bus],
But petitions to our Council are not heeded, [Are not heeded],
So my sole recourse is just to make a fuss.
Ah me!
When tax paying obligation’s to be done, [To be done],
A Tax Payer’s lot is not a happy one. [Happy one].

The shops I loved to visit are a-closing, [Are a-closing],
And they offer only lots of empty space, [Empty space],
Are the Officers employed by me all dozing? [Me all dozing].
Is my bus-less shop-less state a sheer disgrace? [Sheer disgrace].
The pavements that I walk on are uneven, [Are uneven],
And they often tip me flat upon my face, [On my face],
It cannot be surprising that I’m grieving, [That I’m grieving],
For the City that was once a lovely place.
Ah me!
When tax paying obligation’s to be done, [To be done],
A Tax Payer’s lot is not a happy one. [Happy one].

When there's rain, the surface water gets a-flooded [Gets a-flooded]
For the drains are never cleared out, so it’s said. [So it’s said],
My little home can fetch up sadly muddied, [Sadly muddied],
While the gulls and pigeons triumph overhead, [Overhead],
And so I’m seeking comfort in this writing, [In this writing],
Which I’ll distribute by email and by Fax. [And by Fax.]
The despoiling of my City it is frightening, [It is frightening].
And the only certainty is paying Tax.
Ah me!
When tax paying obligation’s to be done, [To be done],
A Tax Payer’s lot is not a happy one. [Happy one].
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ELEGY FOR LOST POETRY

[With apologies to Mr. Thomas Grey ...]

Free verse has tolled the knell of passing rhyme.
Its lame and limp lines lumber leadenly.
The poet writing in this rhymeless time
Has left the world to darkness - and to me.

When that I read the strange prose offerings
To find what is the difference today
Between these lines and past time's profferings,
My mind is filled with wonder and dismay.

Where is the music, where the cadences
Which sang and charmed the listener's captured ear?
These are apparent only by their absences
In prose lines long and short I find now here.

Let me then say to each free versing person:
Drown deep your book, unread. So let it be.
Were I to write free verse, 'twould be a worse one,
So, leave the world to rhyming - and to me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

STAGE STRUCK

[with apologies to Mr. Thomas Hood]
I remember, I remember
The little Village Hall,
Where first I toddled on a stage:
The stage and I were small.
The next Play couldn't come too soon:
Was there a part for me?
At that young age, I knew the stage
Was where I wished to be.

I remember, I remember
The learning days at School.
I often played the cross old maid,
And, frequently, the fool.
And some time in my growing up,
I knew, most bitterly,
The starry brightness of the stage
Was too star-bright for me.

I remember, I remember
The first time that I "dried".
Though Prompt was there, in my despair
I wished that I had died.
And then there came, to sort me out
That first Adjudication:
I shed a chastened, bitter tear,
And thought of emigration.

I remember, I remember
Directors I drove mad.
(To all of these, apologies -
But was I quite that bad?]
Then, costumes Wardrobe made for me
That sometimes didn't fit.
The dress that kept me standing up:
They'd left no room to sit.

I remember, I remember
The trauma of First Night,
The "How did I get into this?"
The "Please let it go right!"
The casts, the camaraderie,
The tears, the cheers, the glooms,
The low-voiced chat of this and that
In cluttered dressing rooms.

I remember, I remember
The roles, some lead, most small:
Some I did well, and some were hell,
And how I've loved them - all.
The treasures of a stage-struck heart,
All these I hold most dear,
So, friends, if you've a part for me
Remember that I'm here ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

WRY BOAT SONG

[With apologies to Sir Harold Boulton
and Mistress Annie MacLeod]

Speed, bonnie boat, disappear into mist:
There’s a bridge arches now to Skye.
Cars whoosh across where the Bonnie Prince rowed,
And I’m blowed if I understand why.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CURATE

[With apologies to Mr. John Masefield]

Stately British Curate in a well-pressed surplice,
Butting up the Chancel in the mad Lent days,
With a retinue of vergers, sidesmen and choirboys,
Raking in the shekels on the cheap tin trays.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

JOAN HUNTER DUNN REVISITED

[With apologies to Mr. John Betjeman]

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How jolly the day when your hand I had won!
How glorious you shone in the Aldershot sun,
And how I adored you, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn!

But thirty years on, you resemble a whale,
With your figure grown fat and your suntan grown pale.
Your hair grown so brassy, your voice grown so shrill:
Former Joan Hunter Dunn, you have run fast - downhill.

The tennis girl's hand that I squeezed in such bliss
Now tosses me bills, saying, briefly, "Pay this!"
The nose, once tip-tilted, now rears in command,
Yet my ring, deep embedded, still gleams on your hand.

So I live on my memories, still shining, still glorious,
The while I ignore you (which makes you quite furious!)
And I don't listen now, quondam Joan Hunter Dunn,
To the end of the tale we, so blissful, begun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~