Swagger, bragger


Predators stalk our streets and prey upon our young.
They act as if they are gifted by some deity the right to rape and to traffic.
There is no deity involved. Hatred of other cultures and criminality are a driving force as is a twisted strain of Islam led by Imams of Hate.
Across our land these packs of rape dogs have been assisted by public authorities, Local Authorities and Police, turning a blind eye to what was happening. They failed our country.
Why? The risk of being called “Racist” as the gangs were mainly Muslim of Pakistan and Kashmiri descent.
Names it seems would hurt them!
So the rapes were covered up in a conspiracy of silence that was a criminal accessory to rape on a massive scale.
Slowly the rapists are being rounded up and sent to jail. Their accessories still are free.

Swagger, bragger

Swagger, bragger prowling spite,
In the town streets of the night.
Oh, what demonic spirit sneak
Sent you to prey upon the weak.

In what dismal low dark hole
Did you become a loathsome soul?
With what greetings seeming sweet
Did you seize on your “easy meat”?

With what loathing in your heart,
Where grooming there became your art;
And with what words so seeming mild
Did you entrap each tender child?

From what foul hole, horrid, deep,
Did your low fetid form once seep.
You had assumed a shape like men;
You Demon from a Demon’s den.

In what mould and with what brew
Was formed the creature that is you?
As every little child you’d clasp
Was held tight in your rapist’s grasp.

Bragger, swagger growling spite,
In the dark streets of the night.
What demonic spirit foul
Sent you out to prey and prowl?

Then with words so seeming odd
You say you did this for your god.
What Deity in the heavenly spheres
Could rejoice in children’s tears?

The Devil views you with more glee
As his foul deeds are done by thee.
And as each child let flow her tears
She cried aloud, but, to deaf ears!

© Trevor Morgan, 30/5/2018

Rotherham child sexual exploitation trial

Note: Thanks go to William Blake for his “Tyger, Tyger burning bright” that put the rhythm in my head before I sat down and wrote this in a few minutes yesterday.

The Landing

In a conflict decades ago there were many landings, both by air and by sea.
Most times things went well sometimes not.
I remember being issued with charts written in Dutch for us to follow.
That was interesting.
What I do remember is mud, deep sticky mud, far worse than the mud at Weston Super Mare.


The Landing

The craft all lay out from the bay
Filled with men prepared for a fight.
They’d stayed there all yesterday
And rode the waves most of the night.

Their crews were well used to the swell
And waited for orders to come.
Soldiers were feeling unwell,
Seasickness had left them all dumb.

The craft slewed and reared in the swell
White faces were wet with the spray,
Of their thoughts no one could tell,
As craft lay off the far shore.

When crewmen ate up their ration
Some soldiers had puked on the deck.
Faces so grey and ashen
Each had his equipment to check.

The diesels had thrummed through the night
As craft lay off the far shore.
Throttles were opened with might
And thrums had turned to a roar.

The craft slewed and reared in the swell
White faces were wet with the spray,
Each in his own secret hell
And tensed for the work of the day.

The craft all as one made a turn,
Bow waves churned up to white crests.
Their wakes made great plumes at the stern
And their hearts beat hard in their chests.

The tracers lit up the east sky
And star shells burst over the shore.
Yet none of them there asked “why?”;
The diesels continued to roar.

The craft slewed and reared on the swell
White faces were wet with the spray,
Each seemed to be in a spell,
As the craft sped into the bay.

The craft careered on at full speed,
Adrenaline started its flow.
The fear then seemed to recede,
We were there to “give a good show”.

Crafts full of young men in their prime
Each checking equipment once more.
This eased the passage of time,
As diesels continued to roar.

The craft slewed and reared on the swell
White faces were wet with the spray,
Our fate no one could foretell
As we raced on into the bay.

In the great scheme of things of course,
There’s nothing of worth on those shores.
Radios crackled some Morse
And bow men stood by the bow doors.

As mangrove trees loomed into sight
And young hearts beat fast out of fear.
Astern dawn’s eerie first light,
The sounds of some gunfire seemed near.

The craft slowed and rode a slight swell,
White faces still wet with the spray.
There seemed a flatulent smell
As we neared the shore of the bay.

Propellers churned up a grey froth
Through mud of the marshy foreshore.
The mud like flames to a moth
Stuck us fast and we moved no more.

The bow doors slapped down on the mud
The first men sank in far too deep.
Terror then froze in their blood,
Stuck there for the reaper to reap.

The small craft brought us to this hell,
Such places can trap men as prey.
Their plan was to charge pell-mell,
But this mud here had blocked the way.

They strained as they fought with the ooze.
A battle with men they could win.
This fight with some mud they’d lose;
The diesel roars made a loud din.

Then tracers etched through the dawn sky
As shells burst beyond the shore line.
Minutes then slowly dragged by
In the mud, the muck and the slime.

Our craft too were stuck in this hell
And the crews were trapped in the bay.
Shell fire still clattered its knell
And quagmires of mud blocked the way.

As diesels churned up a grey froth
Men slithered in mud to the shore.
They raged an undignified wrath,
They wallowed and sweated and swore.

The engines then eased to a hum,
The boat crew had failed though they’d tried.
Though mud we could not overcome;
We could well float free with the tide.

The craft was then stuck in that hell
And we had to get to the shore.
Shell fire still clattered a knell;
– Mud beckoned beyond the bow door …

© Trevor Morgan 1997 & 2018

From: “Saga of Sabah”
Published in Borneo, 2015

No chance of this!

My second theme in my poetry writing was Love.
Well it is a major part of what we are!


No chance of this!

Time and circumstances can bend
Even the most inflexible of spirits.
Time and circumstances can end
Even the most demanding desires.
Like dripping water on a stone
Time can wear away a love,
Until it leaves your heart alone.

Old experience can cool
Even the hottest spirit.
Old experience is no fool
So listen to it.
“Let everyone love and learn;
But whilst loving, live and learn”

© Trevor Morgan 1967 and 2018

Fights ahead

I came across a new word, Kuffarophobia.
This is the irrational hatred of non-Muslims by some Muslims.
Like all hate it has to be challenged and confronted and not appeased.
Sadly many leaders just do not think that way, until too late.
(And no, I do not hate the religions of others)


Fights ahead

Now who can debate with irrational hate
Discuss with old books from the past?
Alas, now too late it seems a dark fate,
So, we’re left here all sad and aghast.

We may feel lost, our fate, storm tossed
As we cope with the hatred and bile.
Through all the cost, we may seem, star-crossed;
The brave they stay true all the while.

While none may debate with irrational hate
Where madness possesses each mind.
Fate ever late will bring forth the Great,
Where life here had seemed so unkind.

We’ll turn and we’ll stand and face all at hand,
And drive back the hallowers of hate.
For we know that here, this is Our land,
Let the bigots of bile face their fate.

© Trevor Morgan, 28/5/2018

Sorties away

Long time ago I was in the operations room of a carrier as she turned into the wind and launched a whole squadron of her aircraft. As a radar operator I tracked them until they went below our radar horizon. Strange something as mighty as a carrier has to turn into the wind to launch a strike. This is predictable and ought to make them vulnerable, but they operate within a screen of escorts that are needed to protect them.

sorties away

Sorties away

Carriers turned into the wind
In distant deep wide seas
And now because some fools had sinned;
The world is out of ease.

And sortie after sortie went
To deal a hammer blow.
With a resolve that won’t relent
They’re sent to cause more woe.

The carrion of the deep will feed
Upon much mortal flesh
And madness will not yet recede;
We’re all caught in its mesh.

Carriers turned back on their course
Their sorties are away,
But actions done without remorse,
May cause yet more dismay.

Trevor Morgan 2015

From: “Saga of Sabah”

Skye Bridge Song

Some old sentimental songs lend themselves to parody.
I see nothing romantic about the rebellion of 1745 and the disaster it caused to many of the common folk of Scotland. 
What is great about the Skye Bridge is now it is so much easier to get to the beautiful Isle of Skye.

Skye Bridge

Skye Bridge Song(Tune: Sky boat song)

Rattle rusty van
Like a can on a string;
Over the bridge to Skye.

There’s now no toll
To drive on this thing;
That’s on the road to Skye.

Carry the sad
And all that they bring;
All the way over to Skye.

They’ve come to take
A break from the stress;
Some lazy days on Skye.

They’re come to make
A real bloody mess;
And litter the paths of Skye.

So rattle rusty van
Like a tin on a string;
Bouncing along round Skye

Yes rattle rusty van
Like a can on a string;
Over the bridge to Skye.

©Trevor Morgan 2002

The original romantic lyric follows:

Skye Boat Song

Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing
Onward the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye
Loud the wind howls
loud the waves roar
Thunderclaps rend the air
Baffled our foes
stand by the shore
Follow they will not dare
Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing
Onward the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye

When you consider this is about Charles Stewart, who led a rebellion to disaster then left with all the gold it is plain sloppy. He ended an obese dissolute waster.

Laura’s Starlight

The vile scandal of child rapes in Rotherham is a horror story.
One of the survivors has written a book about this and the murder of her sister, Laura, in a so-called, honour killing.
This song lyric was inspired by one paragraph in Sarah’s book.


Laura’s Starlight

There’s a star in the night
High above all the spite
But the cause of great loss still remains.
The sun’s in the sky
And the song birds fly high
But a whole town is riven with pains.

Dark waters had hid
The dark deeds demons did
The day that dear Laura was slain.
Searchers had found
Some blood on the ground
And a shoe that bore a red stain.

Now Hope won’t elope
In the arms of despair,
There will be no surrender to fear.
The starlight so bright
Shines down its sweet light,
An Angel seems now with us here.

With strength, we shall share,
Here and everywhere,
The burdens of what must be done.
Till we set to flight
All lewd lust and spite
And justice and truth will have won.


© Trevor Morgan, June 2016


Tide Line

A walk along the high tide line of a shore reveals much.
I love to walk the tide line.


Tide Line

This weed at the tide line
Where flies are swarming near,
The flotsam and the grime;
The stink that brings no cheer.

The beach above the line,
There’s pebbles damp with rain.
They glisten in the sunshine
Around each little stain.

Below the dirty beach
The shore is washed more clean.
Where cleansing waves can reach,
At low tide there’s a sheen.

Below each rock or stone
Shrimps hide at low tide.
Worms heap up each sand cone;
Sand flats are wet and wide.

Here when you lift a rock
The shrimps will dart away.
They flee the sudden shock
Exposed to light of day.

The shore’s a varied place
Some of its full of mess.
But it’s so touched with Grace,
There’s more here than you’d guess.

By weeds at the tide line
The flies they swarming until
The storm clouds are a sign
And weather’s cold and chill

© Trevor Morgan, 2005

From: “Tale of a Half Dane Child”

The writhing of the grieving dragon

Vikings may have attacked monasteries in retaliation for attacks on them.
Christian zealots such as Boniface had been destroying sacred groves and the Carolingians had enforced conversion with a policy of be baptised or killed, the font or the axe, across their northern borders.
This was before the first raid on Lindisfarne in 793AD.
This makes for a more interesting interpretation of events.
In my narratives I chose this theory as it makes a backdrop for ripping yarns

The writhing of the grieving dragon

“A Dragon grieved beside his nest,
His young and mate lay dead.
His tender love then failed this test;
Cold rage burned in his head.

He rode the wave on that cold sea,
Found monks on its far shore.
There seemed a sad pre-destiny
To pains that their Church bore.”

Dragon’s wrath

“The rage, the wrath, the foam, the froth,
The Dragon stormed to sea.
His Love was fragile as a Moth
And now had ceased to be.

It seemed his fate to seethe with hate,
Strike shore of other lands.
He changed then from his natural state,
So, blood now soaks the sands.

Through wrath and rage he wrote a page
Of blood-soaked history.
Why he should fade from off that stage
Might seem a mystery.

But rage and woe will make a foe
Retaliate or die.
Their ebb may then return to flow,
Events then sweep all by.”

Dragon’s Decline

The Dragon’s rage did not abate,
With him grew fat the Raven.
A love that’s twisted into hate
Could well at end turn craven.

The plunder that dark vengeance brings
Would turn from need to greed.
There’s some things may come with such stings;
At end the Dragon bleeds.

Vengeance may start momentum up,
Great mischief has begun.
Like drinking from a poison cup,
All Hope in life is done.

© Trevor Morgan, 2018

From: “Tales of the Half Dane Child”


The dragon was carved on the prow of Norse ships of war.
It is strange that in Europe the Dragon is fierce whilst in Chinese myth they are capable of being kindly to folk.


Strange how writing comedy lyrics is harder than the dramatic!


A guy asked me to dinner
So we could break the ice,
I very soon discovered
He had a secret vice.
I didn’t get to know him
For every time he speaks
All that he can talk of
Is his PASSION – for antiques!


I didn’t get to know him,
I was lost and in a maze
Of Japanese prints and a porcelain vase.

So if I gathered dust
Like some old antique urn,
That could just be the way
In which I might return.
Then he would love me
And he’d not find a fault.
He’d treat me with respect
Then lock me in a vault!


So let the cobwebs gather
On some other gal.
It’s time for me to say:
“So long darling and farewell”.
Cos’ I don’t want to know him
For every time he speaks
All that he can talk of
Is his PASSION – for antiques!


I was lost and in a maze
Of porcelain prints and a Japanese vase

Of Japanese prints and a porcelain vase


© Trevor Morgan 1998

From: lyrics for “Candy Blue”