Willow Walk

echoes of the prosper road

the nightly croaking from the pond

recalls another time and place

the sounds do not quite correspond

but have an equal sort of grace

what's winter here has turned so mild

that we can see the forceful green

reminder of the nearby wild

just inches past the window screen

those arguments that we have made

regarding mother nature's pain

seem all at once a sad charade

as weeds spring up after the rain

what we have learnt is very clear

about the cycles in their course

of tropic or of temperate year

they have the same gigantic force

the frogs that croak in pond or tree

ignoring us proclaiming life

for their short passage do live free

and teach us something about strife

a ballad for august morning

i bow to those who went before

bearing the hoe and long cane-bill

who wept and worked at others' will

till august eighteen-thirty-four

 

we make our choices know the score

believe we act with style and skill

but every option good or ill

begins in eighteen-thirty-four

 

the ships that took them to that shore

in stink of vomit shit and swill

rivers of ink and blood to spill

till august eighteen-thirty-four

 

we cannot tell how much they bore

which ones resisted which stood still

and fed the canes into the mill

till august eighteen-thirty-four

 

our duty now is not adore

but spread the word from plain and hill

that we bear their remembrance still

since august eighteen-thirty-four

 

to bow to those who went before

bearing the hoe and long cane-bill

who wept and worked at others' will

till august eighteen-thirty-four

disaster report

at least i know my friends are fine

the dead were others' friends not mine

 

so much to see upon the screen

the pain is palpable and clear

i hear the words know what they mean

the suffering comes through the air

to dwell on this seems quite obscene

while i'm at work and in my chair

their lives were wiped out clear and clean

so i say words of grief and care

 

at least i know my friends are fine

the dead were others' friends not mine

 

the hurricane was on the news

so many folk thought it was fun

to treat the poor as plain refuse

face their despair with blade and gun

pretend they had the right to choose

the easy way to flee or run

announce these were the only views

and that the time for talk was done

 

at least i know my friends are fine

the dead were others' friends not mine

 

chaos is hidden by the door

turn off the radio and you're fine

the way of good is to ignore

all painful things be struthionine

they do not touch us at the core

no matter how the angry whine

nobody keeps a final score

or lets us see the bottom line

 

at least i know my friends are fine

the dead were others' friends not mine

Eighteen cents a gallon

Prices are rising, driving us all mad,
we all agree that no one can relax;
this is the worst condition, things are bad,
and we can't bear up under these attacks.
McCain says "Cheer up, every lass and lad,
don't shiver in the face of these small cracks!
There is no reason for you to be sad.
We'll just remit some eighteen cents of tax!"

No one could doubt that someone would be glad
to send old John an email or a fax,
explaining just exactly how to add
some more gravitas to his ancient tracks.
For while we suffer he still has to pad
around selling ideas taken from mouldy sacks
and smelling rather worse than day-old shad:
"We'll just remit some eighteen cents of tax!"

by what command

by what command we do not know
the words are written and remain
answer has come but very slow
we do not hope to see again

just what the truth was in the press
or who began the count or why
the answer was it no or yes
the reason was it truth or lie

songs that were sung by hasty sorts
have been forgotten but regret
has worked its triumph through the courts
the road is marked the path is set

master and servant disagree
on how the wages shall be paid
one says the other shall not see
the outcome of the final raid

what's eaten is not any food
that we would choose were we to pay
the price is what had once accrued
upon the ones who chose the way

so marching on the road of choice
we lacked the sense to sit and weep
others were fated to rejoice
we were the ones who had to sleep