Morning Rhymes

I wish my mind would stop these rhymes

They come at inconvenient times,

Even before my alarm bell chimes.

This bloody awful bookie's pen

Will drive me round the bloody bend.

I try to write things down with it,

But it's a piece of useless shit.

Why does this stuff come in my head

Before I'm out of bloody bed?

I'd rather get much-needed rest

Than stagger round in trunks and vest

To get my hands on fresh supplies;

I'd liefer in my warm bed lie.

I'm troubled by a restless muse;

Or is it caused by last night's booze?

In any case it's just bad news.

I feel this need to capture verse

But at the time it's like a curse.

A Coldness of the Heart

People would like to believe

That everyone must have a heart.

To he whose finger grips the trigger,

That kind of thing's a load of fart.

He sees the world a different way,

Easy money is his style.

All he cares is what will pay,

His violence is the proof.

Terror brings him what he wants,

For others' suffering he lacks care.

In spite of all that people wish,

Such cruelty isn't rare.

Some like to say that it's inhuman,

But this is not the truth.

If you know some history,

War's violence gives the proof.

Here we live in a golden age,

When we can dream of peace.

Others are controlled by rage,

Or filled brim full with greed.

For Sade, who has given us such beautiful music and lyrics. Unfortunately this time I can't agree with what she sang.

Breaking Free

Pistorius escapes justice;

The magistrate just takes the piss.

The law says Oscar can't have bail,

Yet out of the courtroom he did sail

As free as a bird – of prey.

The defence lies wouldn't fool a child,

Yet Nair's rebukes are very mild.

He sets bail at a lowish sum,

Which wouldn't buy Oscar a night of fun.
Pistorius likes to have a blub,
Nair ought to give his back a rub.

Nair says there is no risk of flight,

'Cause SA law's so full of shite

The defendant is quite like to skate.

South Africa faces a dismal fate.

They've shot some miners down as well,
But that's not caused a media storm.
The country hurtles down to hell;
Since lies and violence are the norm,
No wonder Oscar thinks he's swell. 


     It is characteristic of the media to confuse style with substance. They, and magistrate Desmond Nair, have said that the prosecution case is weak because it was weakly presented. The detective wasn't as smart as the most expensive lawyer in South Africa. What a surprise! That must mean that we should throw the damning evidence away and feel sorry for Oscar Pistorius.

Similarly: st valentines day massacre
   
  

Recall

I try to mind my finest words,

But they won't come to me at all;

They are quite lost beyond recall.

The New Breed of Taxi and Van Drivers

Having recently returned to driving after an interregnum, I have been struck by how these men have changed. They used to be the fastest drivers on the road, always in a furious hurry, time is money. Now many of them seem quite timid and slow, and get in my way. They hesitate at junctions, and creep nervously about.
     What has caused this transformation? I have absolutely no idea.

St Valentine's Day Massacre

A Valentine's Day storm of lead

Has rendered Reeva Steenkamp dead.

Oscar's pissed on all of us

And yet his fans still make a fuss

Of a man you'd think they'd curse.

The details are yet to come out,

Yet Oscar's fans jump up and shout

His innocence to all who'll hear

Which fills me with a dismal fear

That he'll cheat justice with some lie.

The new cult of celebrity

Has left some cold including me,

We'd rather have equality

Before the law, to set us free.

Reason has been quite displaced

In thoughts of half the human race

By cults of personality

Or even of brand loyalty.

The modern world is so perverse

A twittering land of meaning lost

Soundbite or devious comment terse

Have replaced deep deliberation,

For which we'll pay a dreadful cost

In a weakened civilisation.

Disgusted by the news of Oscar's fans all rallying round him, persuaded by a story planted on the Internet, possibly before Ms Steenkamp was even dead.

Childhood Dreams

childhood dreams have burned to ash -
but dinnae fash;
things are as they have always been;
what's gone was never seen, or felt:
the unrealm is where it dwelt.


'fash' is a Scotch word for 'to become upset'. Sometimes 'dinnae fash yourself'. It is obviously based on the French. The word  'unrealm' I made up at need. It means 'realm of the unreal'. Please add it to the OED.