In the 60’s women  wore a tiny mini-  skirts
[Which seems  odd now, as we wear trousers most]
Then  bought longer ones should Vogue direct

We wore minis, stockings with grip welts
Cool in summer, chilly in the frost
Once all women  wore wool winter skirts

Trousers  made us free from fashions cracked
As long as we had slender tapered waists
We bought versions of  Parisian taste direct.

 

But  recently we see the trousers whacked
They must be short this year or lack good taste
They’re up and down our calves just like the skirts

And though we hated  belts, suspender packed
We now must buy a longer type of sock
To close the gap the shorter trousers make.

So I make my case that women’s trousers lack
Virtue, beauty, wonder, colour based
I think it’s time that skirts should now be backed

Let us admire the  daring females  most
Who wander  flower-skirted to the coast
Let us humans tear off all that hurts!
We need comfort, let the fashions flirt!

 

 

I meant to write a poem of revenge
To hurt the one who shot out glacial words
I knew how to begin but how to end?

Through the Oxford. my sharp eyes had lunged
My vile emotions then were further stirred
I meant to write a poem of revenge

First he wooed me , showed his cultured friends
Sweet the words and soft the voice I heard
I knew how to begin but how to end?

Would retaliation my heart rend?
Down the vultures rushed ,carnivorous birds
As he wooed me with the words he wrung

My arm was disengaged by unseen hand
I could not write, impossible cruel words
I meant to write a poem of revenge

Lady of Macbeth, who’d wash in blood
When evil can be overcome by good?
I meant to write a poem of revenge
I hated once but Good controlled my hand

Through the TV series fun on Saturdays,
They educate us to our foreign ways
We’re blind to our own prejudice, you see.
But we can see it on our dramatised TV.

Our mind’s a stranger to our self;
As Freud discovered with his stealth
We make believe we are all saints.
In words, by gum, it doesn’t half sound quaint!

Tonight on Taggart we see Poles
Shot at close range, here, look, bullet holes.
They’re foreign though they were born here.
And, by the way, your auntie’s queer.

We want a game like chess with rules
Make it black and white, we’re fools.
We forget the Last Judgment’s here today
And God is foreign, by the way.

God’s the foreigner par excellence
He sent us Son down here just once
But like we often do, we killed
They’re using TV now to change our wills.

Enlighten us, dear God, by screens of blue
Make us understand we’re foreign too
We don’t need to go to Church
The TV’s on and here I perch