Saturday, 17 December 2011

What a Fool

It is the little things
oh so sweetly said
that stay with thee until yer past
and keep yer warm in bed

but if in your life
thou abuseth its trust
it'll head off down the street
and leave yea with the dust

of its retreating back
as it legs it down the street
“oh what a fool is love” ye wail
and then begin to weep.

Some things better left unsaid
some best left alone
but love can cut you to the quick
and skin yer to the bone

complicated and unfair
and totally out of whack
love is that awful pain
as it stabs yer in the back.

'Never trust a woman' yea cry
'and never trust a man'
never trust on love alone
till yer kick the can?

Bitter is the after taste
of love so keenly sought
and then abandoned by one or t'other
as they head for different sport.

So yer sit down and yea vow
to never trust again
and allow love to wound you
and cause yer so much pain,

from now on its yer head that rules
and not yer bloody heart
so fear has won another till
from this life yea do depart.

“Ah... Best policy young man is
to jump in with both feet
and bugger all them consequences
for death we all do meet,

And as to bitter failure?
Well now, we've all surely been there too
better that then the cowardly life
of the loveless bloody few,

who once hurt do retreat
and cry out from pack
“oh what a fool is love,
watch yer bloody back”.

Sometimes it seems yer running,
others yer seem stood still
and life like love can seem a nasty
bitter bloody pill.

But don't think of it that way
for risk is all yer see,
and life like love is about the risk
if your soul is to stay free.

“Aye, best policy young man is
to jump in with both feet
when yer meet the girl with whom yer heart
in time doth surely beat”.

My advice to you young man is
'These little things so sweetly said?
Keep em fixed in yer heart
and not up in yer head'.

Friday, 2 December 2011

The Managers Doom.

To a far horizon,
across the sea of mud,
a football is firmly kicked
with resounding thud.

Tackles flying to an fro,
jostling for the ball,
the crowd roars its disapproval
as a player to mud doth fall.

He rolls about on the ground
as though he's close to death,
and the manager can do nought
save hold his bloody breath.

A free kick is given,
the protests cast aside,
so the men must line the wall
as the striker tests his stride.

He curls it to the left
but the goalie dives to right,
and the home crowd bemoan their team
as the manager's put to flight.

He'll be out of work within the hour
and the players will be heard to say,
that the blame for their awful season
was not the way they play.

Four million plus the earn,
and for this they grasp and whine,
'tis not our fault we're crap' they say
'he was simply past his prime'.

We need new blood they whisper
a new manager will set to rights
the errors of the passing man
who could not make gold from shite.