Germs ooze out of a swatted fly

The strong are wise to be economical with the use of force.
Strangely, despite all that’s gone before they rarely ever are..
If the weak are in the way they swat them. If anyone speaks words they do not want to hear they silence them.
This stupidity is alive and flourishing in our country today.

Swat

Germs ooze out of a swatted fly

Some germs ooze from a swatted fly,
Seeped and oozed away.
Where they settled, what they poisoned,
May be hard to say

Chorus

They swatted a fly, it was easy done
With feelings quite wry – they did it for fun.
But, Oh! – how the germs oozed out of the mess
An’ what it’ll get in, will cause such distress.

Some settled in the national press,
Some in much graphic art.
Where it will spread it’s hard to guess;
Some ills are sure to start.

Chorus

Some went in words and some in tune,
That most may sing or hum.
Their message will be well known soon;
The violence of those scum.

Chorus

Some settled in each raging heart,
Some in much local lore
Where it will spread what it may start
May make life one dark chore.

Chorus

If only they had let him be
It would have flown away,
But now from sickness they’re not free;
For they’re plagued every day.

© Trevor Morgan, 26/6/2018

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Inertia for the Intellect

Working in a big, old organisation is weird.
They take you on to do a job then they make it impossible to do it.
Such places are a paradise for the mediocre; that is until the inevitable and they go bust.
This is different in the public sector. There they become a danger to the ordinary citizen until reform or rebellion.

Head of innovation implementation at work
No

Inertia for the Intellect

Why do some feel so insecure,
Why do some feel so frail?
Worried they’ll lose a sinecure?
Scared that they might fail?

All walks of life may be the same,
Best don’t rise to the top
Where mediocre gets the fame;
The able get the chop.

With sound procedures well set up
An institution’s made.
And in good time there’s no let up
Until it is obeyed.

All newness then will be locked out
And good work chucked aside.
No matter what is wrote about
No new things get inside.

Inertia of the intellect
Can be seen all the time.
It is the only prime suspect;
Its dead hand is the crime.

©Trevor Morgan 19/6/2018

Note:

I was once taken on to ensure contract compliance on construction sites.
The job seemed okay until I moved home and arrived for my first day.
I was supposed to ensure compliance but was not allowed on any construction site! That “was not how we do things here”!!!
This was with Sheffield City Council. They currently claim to be “Green” whilst hacking down trees. They are not just mad, they are plain nasty if challenged. They are not unique in this as a public body.

Fairy Ring Song

I loved the stories of Fairies told by my sweet Grangran when I was little.
I was told not to step into a fairy ring, and if I walked into one by accident there was a ritual that might save me. I was five at the time but remember that story and especially the way she told it.
So I incorporate this lyric in a longer work

fairyrings.jpg

Fairy Ring Song

“We dance within each fairy ring
We knew each fairy’s name
Now as we dance we have to sing
For this is not a game

Once in the ring do make a wish
But keep it to yourself
Turn round three times ‘til skirts go swish
And that keeps out the elf

When in the presence of the fey
All have to sing in rhyme
For if the fairies get their way
You’re carried off through time

And what may seem an hour or two
Could be a hundred year
And those you love will then miss you
You cause each bitter tear

Turn round three times step backwards now
Go out where you came in
And as you leave do give a bow
That way the fey won’t win”

© Trevor Morgan, 7/6/2018

From: “Tales of Aethelflaed, Lady of the Mercians”

King Lemming

If you are thinking of going into politics to “Make a difference”, think again before commencing.

“All political careers no matter how illustrious ultimately end in disappointment…”
Enoch Powell
And he should know!

lemming

King Lemming

I met this lemming on the road
He had no fear of heights
And purposeful away he strode
To go and see great sights

The higher up you go you see
The furthest sights of all
On high cliffs here above the sea
That lemming met his fall

Acceleration’s quite a thing
As t’wards the beach you fly
That lemming felt just like a king
Yes, he knew how to die

There is a red smear on a rock
King like, he’d passed that way,
Whilst foolish peasants stand and mock
His was a glorious day

There’s glory in a steady rise
There’s glory in it all
As lemming’s rain down from the skies
– So all the great must fall!

© Trevor Morgan, 6/12/2002

lemmings002

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

Note:
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.

JAPANESE PRINTS AND A PORCELAIN VASE

Strange how writing comedy lyrics is harder than the dramatic!

JAPANESE PRINTS AND A PORCELAIN VASE

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!

Chorus

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!

Chorus

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!

Chorus

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”

Bowlegged Buck

I like country music.
I like it because the lyrics are so integral to the art form.
Also although the songs are about Mamma, trains, getting drunk, etc., they also have a good tradition of the comic lyric.
I dedicate this to all boys named Sue!

Bowlegged Buck

A bowlegged cowboy
And his knock-kneed lady
The wanted such love
But well – maybe –
They’ll find it a chore.
They find it to so strained,
Yet, for their loving
Neither Complained.

The bed was no good.
The table all right.
So that’s where they spent
Their first lovin’ night.

Getting together
Though it was a chore
Is somethin’ they’re doin’
Now more an’ more.

But then with love
The question it begs;
How love finds a way
Through a mismatch of legs.

A bowlegged cowboy
And his knock-kneed lady
Enjoyin’ such love
And though – maybe –
They find it a chore,
They find it a strain,
Yet, for this loving
Neither Complain.

© Trevor Morgan, 2004

From: “Lyrics for Candy Blue”

Nan’s Fairy Song

Story time is fun

Fey

Nan’s Fairy Song

“Now there are fairies in each glade,
They’re by each tree and brook.
Some dwell beneath the ash tree’s shade;
You’ll see them if you look.

The young and old may see the fey,
But only if we’re kind.
There are grown men who talk to them,
But they have lost their mind.

Beware the fairy folk please do
And don’t go to their hall.
For they may play such tricks on you,
That you could cry and bawl.

Content yourself to watch the fey,
But do not heed their speech.
Then you’ll come home at end of day
And not be out of reach.

The fairy king he likes young maids,
Yes, he likes having them.
And where a maid has gone with him,
No maid comes back again.

The fairy queen she has tirades
Each time a flower’s lost.
She scolds the king with oaths so grim,
But wenches bear the cost.

The children who may come by chance
Can be blamed on the fey.
Ah, wench you’ve led a merry dance,
When you romped in the hay”

© Trevor Morgan

From: “Tales of Aethelwulf of Lyng”

The Inchcape Rock – Part II

Robert Southey was a true great.
I love his morality poem “The Inchsape Rock” so much I felt I had to compose a sequel, so I did yesterday.
In his day there were violent robbers and in his story, Sir Ralph the Rover, ends in Hell for his crimes.
The big time thieves of our day use fraud. They rob in a semi legal way through the books. Pension funds and personal savings are plundered so Wall Street and City of London gangsters can prosper. They steal from the have nots so they can have yachts.
May the knell of the Inchcape bell welcome them to hell!

The Inchcape Rock – Part II

As Ralph the Rover arrived in hell
Tolled in down there by Inchcape’s Bell,
The fiery lake that his soul bore
Spewed him up on a brimstone shore.

How Ralph the Rover cursed his lot,
Both scalding lake and shore were hot
And all those demons dwelling there,
Gave his soul such great pains to bear.

His wreck companions rang for him
That same bell as a requiem.
They’ll keep it up for evermore
As he burns on that Brimstone shore.

One day the Abbot came to hell
What his sins were none there could tell.
Old Nick alone seemed full of glee;
Just like when sailors drown at sea.

The Rover and the Abbot then
Were burning in that demons’ den.
The Bell would ring there all the while
And make Ralph rage and Abbot smile.

“Why Abbot are you in this place?
What could have caused you this disgrace?”
Ralph asked above the Bell’s loud din,
“What could have been your secret sin?”

“Ah, during all my live long days,
I envied many their reckless ways.
My mind oft wandered as I prayed
And to naughty thoughts it strayed.

I thought me many a hearty thought
Of shameless deeds, but, I did nought.
Nought, that is save now and then,
I’d thought unseemly thoughts again

I did no harm, but to be blunt
My piety was but a front.
Oh, yes, I did all those good deeds,
But cared not much for other’s needs.

All my life I put on a show”;
He paused a while then in his woe
As demons screeching fearful ire,
Drenched him once more with flames of fire.

“Now that I’m dead some may reveal
That I’d been slippery like some eel.
I’d altered many a title deed,
I felt we had a greater need.

In my smug way I felt secure,
To feel aloof has its allure.
That Bell that saved ships on their way
I put there as my vain display

I sought to be seen good and true,
But of my frauds, well no one knew.
So, some wailing widows felt aggrieved,
I knew that they’d not be believed!

My Abbey had a greater need,
Why I had my monks and folk to feed.
What if I made some rich folk poor;
I still might feed them at my door!”

Ralph failed to hear the last word said
As he was bathed in molten lead.
But, although that word he’d missed,
His lively mind had got the gist.

“Oh, Abbot we were brothers never
Now we are partners here for ever.
I stole and I gave out much grief
But with your quill you were the thief.”

Those two their agonies they bore,
There upon that brimstone shore.
And demons torture them always
With pain until the end of days.

For frauds are just a sort of thief,
Like plunderers they cause much grief.
The Rover all folk knew was bad
But fraudsters make us really mad.

You may oft hear a howl and wail
And think it but some storm or gale
Up there beside the Inchcape shore;
But that may well portend much more.

Deep there in some dismal hell
Tormented souls forever dwell.
For sneak and thief and dirty liar
Deserve to burn there in Hell’s fire.

Lives that are lived low and aloof
Will be adjudged by open proof
Then it’s too late then to repent;
For sinful souls will be Hell sent!

© Trevor Morgan, 10/5/2018

Dedication to Robert Southey (1774AD 1843AD) a Bristolian, as am I.

Note:

Southey was fond of playing with his children and amusing his children.
This was unusual for men in his time.
So , below I attach his lovely morality poem. His children must have loved him reciting this. Good on you Robert.

The Inchcape Rock

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The Ship was still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,
The Mariners heard the warning Bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok

The Sun in the heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round,
And there was joyaunce in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcpe Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck,
And fix’d his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape Float;
Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape Float.

Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the Rock,
Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”

Sir ralph the Rover sail’d away,
He scour’d the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder’d store,
He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky,
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.”

“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore.”
“Now, where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.”

They hear no sound, the swell is strong,
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along;
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,
“Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!”

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even is his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear;
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.

Robert Southey 1796AD

Sonnet – Art Gallery

Despite much effort I never was much good at art.
I have spent long hours in art galleries. They are special places.

artgallery

Sonnet – Art Gallery

Landscapes and seascapes and ships in a storm.
Portraits with poses, stiff and so haughty.
Scenes of destruction so sad and forlorn,
Some old pictures are fruity and naughty.
In some of the scenes light glints in the lime,
Baroque and rococo and old Dutch scenes.
Insides of old churches – frozen in time –
Turner’s old skyscapes like wisps from our dreams.
Seasons and weather, people and places
Sketched, drawn and painted by artists of old.
Skills are shown in the lines on the faces,
Fine are some colours with blue, red and gold.
Art of these artists, visual and vivid;
I lack their skills and that makes me livid.

© Trevor Morgan 1997