True Love’s two loves

Sailors are notorious story tellers.
They spin many an implausible yarn. Some claim to be phenomenal love engines.
I believed a lot of their tales when young. Looking back, a lot of the time I was listening to the imaginings of young male virgins much of the time.
So, years later, I wrote a blues lyric about just how their mighty fictional feats might not be appreciated.


True Love’s two loves

I once had a special boy
And to him I was true,
Though he was my only love
He is in love with two!
I’m one of my true love’s two loves.


Our boy is real caring
And he enjoys the sharing,
With both of my true love’s two loves.

I found out and challenged him,
He said it’s nothing new.
It’s good to have one lover
But he get’s more love with two
And we’re both my true love’s two loves.


He’s got too much love for one
And so to show he cares,
Don’t treat us unfair at all
Gives fair and equal shares
To both of true love’s two loves.


I gave up my special boy
When he looked up at me
Said “I feel so full of joy
I’ve got ‘nough love for three”!
I’m through with true love’s new loves.


We once had a special boy
And to him we were true.
Though he was our only one
He said he loved us two.
We were both my true love’s two loves.


© Trevor Morgan 1997

From: Lyrics for Candy Blue


Hyde Park’s Discordant Corner

In the 1960’s I got entertainment at Hype Park Corner.
Freedom of speech is essential in a democracy even if we are free to talk twaddle.
We drift towards dictatorship if we restrict freedom of speech even if what some say is just plain nasty.

Hyde Park’s Discordant Corner

People standing, people talking, people stating point of view,
Alone in groups people standing round each speaker disagreeing.

Argy bargy, argy bargy, “this is how the world should be”!
Argy bargy, argy bargy, “you are not as right as me”!

People standing, people talking, people stating point of view

Yack yack, yack yack, “ people like you should get the sack”
Yack yack, yack yack, “you’ld better take what you said back”!

Alone in groups people standing round each speaker disagreeing

Praise be, save me, “Have faith in God and no other”
Save me, praise be, “he will love you like a mother”!

People standing, people talking, people stating point of view.

Refute, deny, “These Christians say have faith, comply”,
Refute, deny, “or in hell you’ll frazzle and fry”!

Alone in groups people standing round each speaker disagreeing

High flown, monotone, “We have the moral point of view”;
High flown, monotone, “we are twice as right as you”!

People standing, people talking, people stating point of view,
Alone in groups people standing round each speaker disagreeing,

Alone in groups people standing listening to the points of view.

© Trevor Morgan, August 1968

Words in quotes not mine, they were heard said on that sultry Sunday at Hyde Park Corner. I wrote them down and composed this on the bus going home.

A Living Poet’s Apology

It has always seemed to me that poetry is the art of the dead.
Poets are rarely recognised when alive. This may well be for the best. Too much approval would only take the edge off of their works.


A Living Poet’s Apology

I know I must apologise
For not being dead.
For I should start to decompose
Before I’m being read.

Reader will you please realise
A secret we might share;
You and I could idealize,
That I’m not really there.

My verses could then bear some weight,
You’ld not be woe be gone.
We could relax and contemplate
with verses by “Anon”.


© T Morgan 1997 and © Anon.


I wrote some lyrics for a fictional 1960s American band.
They were a mix of blues and comic material.
Yes, I know the Beatles got here first with I am the Taxman! Not all themes have to be original. They just have to make for an entertaining song.



One day we made it big
So now we’re in a jam
Cos’ where’s there’s one for us
There’s ten for Uncle Sam

Now we’re on a treadmill
And we just can’t relax
Cos’ every day we get a bill
For lots more income tax

We got ourselves a manager
To get the business done
But he grabbed the money
And now he’s on the run


We got us an accountant
Then we ran out of luck
Cos’ every time he saves a dime
He charges us a buck


We got us an attourney
And he then proved a snake
Cos’every time he works for us
He’s always on the take


We kicked out the accountant
And the snake to boot
Now we’re really in it deep
I.R.S. took all the loot


Got us into spendthrift ways
And were feeling clever
Looks like we’ll end our days
Paying for the pleasure



From “Candy Blue”

Always civil (but not) servants

I have been Councillor and a council officer.
Almost all senior officers have total contempt for the elected representatives of the people. In my experience they are manipulative and deceitful. For an opposition councillor of a minor party most do not even bother to hide this contempt. To me they are a curse that ought be removed from the system.
At government level we actually call these creatures “civil servants”! Now that term must have been originally conceived of as a sick joke!

Always civil (but not) servants

Oh, we write long reports
Then we edit the draft
And we tick every box
Because that is our craft.

But we live by a misdeed
We’re always performing,
For we live by a creed
Bitter and deforming.

We can slow all things down
When they need to be done,
Leave you hanging around
Cos’ delay can be fun!


No! we’re not your servants
Though you’ll never know it.
We hold you in contempt
But we’ll never show it.

If you’re in a hurry
And foolishly show it,
Then there is a duty
Placed on us to slow it.

Yes, we’ll lead you around
On a merry wee dance,
No straight answers are found;
So you haven’t a chance.

There’s always somewhere
That we can refer you,
What takes you forever
Will surely deter you.


Though straight are your questions
Our answers are never.
We’re quick with rejections,
For – “Yes” – wait forever!

Where it’s easy to aid
Then we must show restraint.
Cos’ that’s not why we’re paid;
Why – there’d be a complaint.

Yes, our life is quite swell,
Though not of our making.
Oh, but yours will be hell
Because of our faking.


Cos’ we’re not your servants
Though you’ll never know it.
We hold you in contempt –
But we’ll never show it.

This would work as a lyric to a music hall style of song.

Trevor Morgan 1992

Just a bit!

I like the poetry of Pam Ayres
It’s jolly, it’s humourous, it’s fun.
These are the very reasons why the literary elites hate it. Oh, that and it rhymes!
I am not in her league. Comic verse is hard work.
But I try my best.

Just a bit

A bit of this, a bit of that,
A little bit won’t make you fat!
Another bit, perhaps one more,
Another small piece like before.
Another nibble and some sips
Won’t put too much upon your hips!
And then perhaps in company
To join in with the repartee
We’ll join the buffet queue with you
And have a little snack, or two!
A bit of this, a bit of that,
A little bit won’t make you fat;
Another bit perhaps one more
Another small one like before.
Oh, dearie me, what is the matter?
With all these little bits – you’re so much fatter!

© Trevor Morgan, 2 February 2002

Committee Ditty

I misspent much of my life being ineffective in politics.
Some people doodle in long boring meetings. My form of doodle is in nonsense verse
On this occasion we spent four minutes allocation £700m to schools, twenty minutes on catering and were at it for nearly two hours debating the appropriate colour to paint a bus shelter outside a school.
Real worthwhile public duty was done by all.

(I had to cut and paste this from old papers as the old computer file would not load or edit and the indent on WordPress is useless) I first wrote it in 1985.Committee003



Betsy Hooker

I wrote lyrics for a dark musical about a killer of prostitutes.
It was called “The Finger of God” and was about a religious nutter who thought the killing of women was his divine duty.  If God does talk to some guys why are the messages so conflicting?
His first victim was Betsy.


Betsy Hooker

Long time ago I lived next door
To Betsy a gifted whore
Her clients as should be expected
Were those who were the most respected

Betsy Hooker
What a looker
Takes big bucks
For YOU to book her

Betsy was once a sweet cutie
Some said she’d been quite a beauty
Hundreds of men used to climb her stairs
Lay out the cash and sample the wares


But Betsy slipped from perfection
When she caught a small infection
Rich wives received this second-hand
Then things, well – they got out of hand


Betsy visited the top Docs
And they all agreed she had the pox
It was then she lost her youthful hue
‘Cos she was beaten – black and blue

Betsy Hooker
Was a looker
Takes less bucks
For you to book her

The Docs took all of Betsy’s dough
And the shame really laid her low
But she still had all her old skills
So she set to work to pay the bills


Mary moved in across the street
And she looked young and cute and sweet
Less men now climbed Betsy’s stairs
‘Cos they’ve gone to sample Mary’s wares

Betsy Hooker
Once a looker
A few bucks
And you can book her

So now today I live next door
To Betsy, a hard worked whore
Her clients aren’t so well connected
Drab old guys not well respected

Betsy Hooker
Not a looker
A few bucks
And you can book her


© Trevor Morgan 1997


From: “The Finger of God”

Moths Flutter

Poetry in its use of rhythm, alliteration and rhyme and the art of the pause, was initially an aid to memory before literacy was widespread.  Content is also an aid but only if it lights a spark.  It is easy to memorise a rude or funny song lyric.
Modern, so called poetry, just does not get this. So-called free verse to me is not verse at all; it is prose. Some of it may be quite nice prose, but to call it poetry is to usurp the art form.
I no longer go to poetry groups. I do not want an explanation of a poem before it is spoken nor an analysis after. That is pretention. The work must speak for itself.
The earliest verses we know of tended to be narratives or prayers to deities. Later we get comedy and comedy can be hard. Yes comic verses and song lyrics are a very serious business. This I find so hard with my butterfly brain.


Moths Flutter

Moths flutter up to the light
And flames may cause their doom.
One night a moth went to such height
And fluttered to the moon.

It flitted all about the place,
It fluttered round about,
It landed on the moon man’s face;
You should have heard him shout!

“Oh, you gave me such a scare
Landing on my nose.
Pray, what were you doing there?”
But no moth ever knows.

Light seems to seep into their souls,
It causes them to yearn.
And they will leave their grassy knolls
And many of them burn.

Hypnotic light attracts them so,
They journey to its source.
That’s why the moon moth had to go.
Now could I fib? – of course!

© Trevor Morgan 2018