I looked out of my bedroom window

And what did I see?

A pair of eyes looking back at me

The fox I’m sure just smiled below.

 

I waved and grinned to show my love

And what did I see?

A fox cub so pleased to feel so free

While I looked down from just above.

 

When I looked down again there was no fox

And what did I see?

A hound came sniffing so angrily

Round and round our cardboard box.

 

At last the hound went on its way

And what did I see?

My little fox sits on the box in glee

Making her special to me today.

 

Reaching fifty? Oh, what a bore!

Stunners glancing at the floor

Seeing me wrinkly and so mature

Devalued by my roaring snore

No longer flashing up a score

A frumpy grump and what’s more

Returning laden from the corner store

Unpacking Domestos, not Allure

Finding joy in a household chore

The mirror reflects a mother-in-law

Rush for the bedroom make-up drawer

Hot tears well up as they have before.

Now stop it, stop it, just don’t get bitter

Foundation first, but where’s the glitter?

 

The piled up sandstone names
Carved there, glaring
Aghast at how their sacrifice
Is wasted, profligately.

Their sandstone voices shunned
Their calls unheard
Barking condemnation
At the shallow makers
Of national policy
Who, unmindful of them
Steer our country towards
Rocks of madness.

And yet with honeyed words
And sleeky mouthings
Our politicians
Duck, bow and bob
Their creaking, glassy shoes
Immaculate
Twinned with gloating suits
Parading opulence.

Polished faces feign reverence
Of our youthful dead
For sly policy, lies and betrayal
Nullify past sacrifice and love.

 

There once was a girl, Cinderella

Who tripped over her Aunt’s umbrella

She copped a prong up her nose

Which hurt, you’d suppose

So it stopped her cleaning the cellar.

 

There once was a nurse called Frieda

Who turned into a bit of a bleeder

When she pulled out the syringe

Sprayed blood made everyone cringe

The patients screamed, “We don’t bloody need her!”

 

There once was a Pantomime Dame

Whose huge knickers attracted great fame

When flashing these incredible drawers

She could count on manic applause

For the Panto was unbelievably tame.

 

There once was an artist delightful

Whose character never was spiteful

He resembled Van Gogh

With one helluva cough

Making all of his paintings quite frightful.

 

There once was a flash paparazzi

So charmless he never said “Grazzi”

When he snapped the wrong dude

And was so foolishly rude

He shipped a sharp slap; what a patsy!
 
 

Sad the vain man who never ran
Smoothing his mind with an oil can

Whose ideas never could be budged
Never made slippy and never fudged

Never sweet thinking in our cleaner air
But somehow trapped under the stair

Never alive to each morning’s story
Trapped in a vortex whirling in fury

Finding grave fault so passionately
My God! In the mirror, can that be me?