LIFE
POVERTY
Poverty stalks my dreams in the night
As he walks on the beach, ’tween tides of time
He shelters in shadows, away from the light
And thou I can’t see him, he follows my line
And nothing I do will make him take flight
But as he circles, sheltered in shade
I wander along to his old Devil song
And hear him and fear him and feel so afraid
For I wonder to whom my soul will belong
As he lurches along the trail I have made
Dragging Demons for me out the sack on his back
While I just need to sleep in dark dunes of sand
But he waits ’til I stagger to start his attack
Then seizes me tight in the grip of his hand
As the seams of my dreams all fade into black
So we wander along, shackled together
To shuffle the shore, at a slovenly pace
With Conscience in tow, whatever the weather
For she’s in no hurry to finish the race
With a hold of my soul, her song is forever
But stumbling on stones thrown up by the sea
My nemesis Death is heading this way
He digs up old wounds to hurl them at me
As stalking beneath this sky of slate-grey
He callously casts them with vigour and glee
Now I spot his companions Illness and Fear
Who are lurking close by, waiting to show
Their slow recognition, as we grow near
But now I do fear, they will deal me a blow
So I fight against Fate, to escape and get clear
But they come within reach, so we sit on the beach
In a hollow called Hope, where we celebrate Hate
A faithful old friend, who seems to be late
But the party has started, and will go on ’til dawn
When they all will decide, just to whom I belong
Audio Version
UNEMPLOYED
Sleeping late, eating less
Today, tomorrow, just a guess
Unemployed, on the dole
One of millions, playing a role
An interview at the crack of dawn
Hope to God it won’t take long
For another job would go down fine
Being out of work is such a crime
So looking smart, but feeling a fool
I turn up on time and try to look cool
Please take a seat, just wait a minute
Don’t worry, I say, a minute’s not in it
This year, the minutes, the worry, the fear
Of living alone without any money
Isn’t so funny, a minutes not in it
Hope to God I’ll be working soon
Go in now, it’s the first on the right
A roomful of losers, washed in the light
Filling in forms, on what’s wrong and what’s right
But after a while, in we all file
Tightening our tie and flashing our smile
You must understand, the tribunal say
The Job Centre sent you all here today
For the wages are low and the hours really long
And we only want people with brains and with brawn
For with hundreds of people willing to work
We have to make sure you’re not going to shirk
There’s a short list, you see, of workers to be
So run along, you lucky man
Run from the system while you still can
Just look for our letter, tomorrow at noon
And we do hope you find what you’re looking for soon
Audio Version
THE BABY SMILES
In the wind and rain
The baby smiles
The rain
Coats her smile
With tears
I wonder
Will the tent
Hold out the cold
For with hunger
The little ones
Cry such a lot
But the baby is good
She does not cry
For now I see
She cannot feel
The wind or rain
Or the hunger
Or my love
The rain
Coats her smile
With tears
BANGLADESH OCTOBER 1988
Audio Version
THE RUNAWAY
This thing that perched upon the edge
And waited on the pavement ledge
Stared out blankly at a world
Where the callous rush of life unfurled
A youth whose callow innocence lay tousled in the wind
To float amidst the dust, where like a dream it spinned
An echo in the street, a slow and strangled call
That tightened in his throat, as it beat against the wall
A sound that gave me guilt to sense its quiet embrace
As he stalked along the street and I saw his frightened face
When he entered slow this city, devoid of love or pity
And realised existing, or surviving in this place
Would stop his soul reviving, faith in the human race
DEDICATED TO THE THOUSANDS OF TEENAGERS, SLEEEPING ROUGH
Audio Version
THE IMMIGRANT
Pity the poor immigrant
With no uncle, with no aunt
And no family he can see
All alone now he will be
With so few jobs that he can take
Will poverty be hard to shake
Will he ever end up rich
No, only with a lottery glitch
And will a life of pain and drink
Drive him to the very brink
Or will this time so full of grime
Drive him to a life of crime
And will he ever find a wife
Or will his life be full of strife
Will gentle hands smooth out his hair
Or is his fate the barbers’ chair
No soothing voice for an aching head
Just a bottle of booze and a lonely bed
No hospital visits whenever he’s ill
Just nurses with needles and pill after pill
No loving caress, that to him meant so much
Now just an old memory he never can touch
No welcoming arms or children’s glees
Just a tired old dog all covered in fleas
No breakfast in bed with the Sunday news
Just four empty walls to echo his views
No family Mass with the choir in full song
Just a drink in the pub and a sad sing-a-long
No visits from sons or daughters today
Just a friendly drunk to usher away
No cosy fire with logs all alight
Just a one-bar heater to lighten the night
At Christmas, no crackers or brandy pudd
Just a T.V. dinner that looks rather rude
No green Christmas tree lit up with lights
Just the echoes of neighbours having their fights
No walks in the wood or romps in the snow
With no-one around there’s no-where to go
So to live in this place and not drown in despair
He will need to pursue a life full of prayer
For left on his own in this awful land
He surely will need some guiding hand
Audio Version
DEATH OF A FRIEND
Strong of hand, fleet of feet
For guys like us, all life was sweet
We’d dance and drink ’til the early hours
Then sleep in the park after picking the flowers
Of women and wine, we had our fill
But time pushed us both, right over the hill
Booze got the better of Bob, there’s no doubt
For his family and friends soon wanted out
He wound up in a hostel for addicts and drunks
I went to an Abbey and lived with the monks
Bob slept on his shoes, as a pillow at night
As bugs drained his strength, by the moon’s misty light
His bed lay in a row, in a big hollow room
Where at night naked men would all pee in the gloom
Now his comrades in dreams were armies of mice
And they shared this great feast with scabies and lice
To escape from this world Bob then turned to drugs
Which we both had agreed were only for mugs
Yet one night he drowned, in their tender caress
But grateful I was, that he died without stress
IN MEMORY OF MY DEAR FRIEND ROBERT COLEMAN
Audio Version
THE WORLD PASSED BY
Stretched out on his bed of papers and wood
The old man lay quietly sighing
He ached at the thought of warmth and food
But the world passed him by and he heard it sigh
Oh dear, what a shame, who’s to blame
I’d help if only I could, I would
I’d help for I feel that I should
His legs grew cold as the wind grew bold
For his clothes were all falling apart
He had wanted to go, for it looked like snow
But he hadn’t the strength to start
The world passed him by and he heard it sigh
I’d help if only I could, I would
I’d help for I feel that I should
It started to snow as night came on
But the old man was quiet, his hunger had gone
Now he was alone in a world of his own
He’d ended his fast at last
The night passed him by, and it did sigh
I helped for I knew if I could I would
I helped for I felt that I should
THAMES EMBANKMMENT 2004
Audio Version
ON HIS OWN
With the drift of the snow came the night closing fast
And full well he knew, that his fire would not last
So he wrapped in his rags and left the dying heat
Little thinking that night, his death he would meet
He had lived by himself, preferred being alone
And never spoke much, except just to moan
But that’s why he died, not of cold, on it’s own
But more of the fact that he stayed so alone
They found him that night, by the street lamp above
He had died from the lack of something called love
CARDBOARD CITY WATERLOO 2003
Audio Version
HER USUAL SELF
TO THE MEMORY OF BEVERLY LEWIS, WHO DIED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE, ON THE SEVENTEENTH OF FEBRUARY, NINETEEN EIGHTY-NINE. SHE WAS A BLIND AND DEAF SPASTIC WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A BACK ROOM, SLEEPING ON AN OLD SETTEE COVERED WITH NEWSPAPERS; WHEN SOCIAL SERVICES VISITED THE HOUSE MR. KIETH PARRY, OF GLOUCHESTERSHIRE COUNTY COUNCIL, SAID BEVERLY HAD BEEN IN THAT CONDITION FOR SO LONG SHE SHOULD BE USED TO IT, BECAUSE THE HOUSE WAS LITTERED WITH OLD NEWSPAPERS AND ROTTING FOOD. BEVERLY WAS GENERALLY LEFT NAKED BUT WAS OCCASIONALLY CLOTHED IN A BLANKET, OR A BUNDLE OF OLD MATERIALS. WHEN FOUND SHE WEIGHED LESS THAN FOUR STONE.
I never saw her again
But, when I went there last
She was her usual self
And all that was needed
Was merely to move her
From the settee to a mattress
We did try, the Doctor and I
But it was difficult to breathe
With death and decay
Eating up the air
Besides we had to peel away
So gently off her back
A filthy rotting sack
Which served to keep her warm
For she was blind and deaf, of course
Which did help to explain
Why she never felt the pain
Of being welded by her waste
Itself a sticky paste
That sucked her down
With every breath
Into an evil pit of death
Now the sound of her shame
As she gently froze in pain
Will never ever leave
But now I dare not think of her
Except when I see snow or rain
Slide gently down my window pane
Audio Version
THE PHONE BOX BOY
They called me that, for I had been found
Wrapped in a blanket, lying on the ground
In a red phone box, in the dead of the night
As the moon and my mum slid out of sight
Barnardoes turned up and gave me a home
But as I grew up I just wanted to roam
Here life was too noisy, I was never alone
So I left there, with nothing to carry but pride
And a strong sense of ethics, deep down inside
With no family or friends I would sleep in a ditch
But on all village greens, my tent I could pitch
For I’d found a friend, as I travelled round
Relating my tales to folks that I found
My friend was a donkey, and he pulled a cart
And for many long years he lived in my heart
We would travel the land, sleeping under the stars
Local by-laws allowed me to build little fires
On all village greens, so we could rest up
To cook us a meal, and sit there and sup
And then tell our stories, as folk filled our cup
With pennies and pity, and wishes of luck
’Til one night we camped by Blewbury Green
And I told my tales ’neath a frozen moon-beam
When three little lads, barely teens, I am told
Cornered old Merlin, as he lay tired and cold
With hands ever gentle, they stroked his long tail
But with evil intent for they made Merlin wail
When they tied on fire-crackers, and giggled in glee
As they then lit them up, when no-one could see
Merlin frothed at the mouth, just gasping for air
And panicked in fear, to run here and run there
But got hit by a truck, that fast homeward bound
Crushed poor old Merlin, right into the ground-
I still haunt the highways, telling my tale
And I will not stop, and I will not fail
To find those three lads, some cold moonlit night
When I’ll teach them all, the real meaning of fright
FOR PETER (KULGAN) CAIRNS, AND MERLIN, HIS FAITHFUL FRIEND FOR 17 YEARS, AND OF COURSE, THE GOOD FOLK OF BLEWBURY.