Liverpool’s League Title Comes Home

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A 30 year wait for Liverpool FC to win the league but finally this week they have done it.

Time for a Football’s Coming Home /You’ll Never Walk Alone Mash up.

(original lyrics by Baddiel and Skinner)

LIVERPOOL’S LEAGUE TITLE COMES HOME

Shan’t walk alone
Shan’t walk alone
Alone
You’ll never walk alone

Liverpool burst through the winning door
They’ve seen it all before
They’ve just won
And what’s more

This time didn’t throw it away
Didn’t blow it away
Cos they can sure play
Premier League Champions

Liver birds on their shirts
Anfield smiles a-beaming
30 years of hurt
Never stopped believing

Many times close, the oh so nears
Fans sobbing tears in
Sorrow town
Now celebration

Cos cool Klopp ran the plan
Sure is the main man
And now all the fans
Shan’t stop dancing

Liver birds on their shirts
Anfield smiles a-beaming
30 years of hurt
Never stopped believing

Shan’t walk alone
Never alone
You’ll never walk alone

Shan’t walk alone
Shan’t walk alone
Never alone
You’ll never walk alone

Shan’t walk alone
Liver birds on their shirts
Anfield smiles a-beaming
30 years of hurt
Never stopped believing

Liver birds on their shirts
Anfield smiles a-beaming
30 years of hurt
Never stopped believing

Liver birds on their shirts…

 

What’s Happening?

Still in Lockdown and what to write about? I could write some nice cosy stuff to help with staying at home, but no, let’s write about the monumentally shit government we have here in the UK. 

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The Prime Minister tried ayahuasca, with his favourite flapjack biscuit
It acted as a truth serum, ‘keep quiet? No I’ll risk it…’

 

And he and his government said…

To help us with this virus, we’ll get an app called track and trace
It’s gonna be ‘world-beating’, it’ll be so fucking ace
But what we say and what we do, always vastly differs
Maybe cos a few of us, are kite high cocaine sniffers
We shan’t put the app up for tender, our mates will get the deal
With worthless firms with no assets, it’s the public purse we steal
Yes we are the Posh School Muggers, largest gang of the entire hood
We’re in politics for self-interest, WE ARE the greater good
Any blame? We’ll shift or spin it, double down on our lies each day
And our moody mates in the media, will create a shadow play
To indoctrinate lesser thinkers, the ones obsessed with flags
Like dear old Donald that President, who hugs them like their WAGs (remember that!?)
We can see you all a-coming, but you can’t see the real us
Now we’re painting aeroplanes like that Brexit bus
We’re always making U turns, more than plumbers have U bends
Our thinking is all blocked up, our policies are dead ends
We are the vain-glorious government, we boast and do things by half
If it wasn’t for DANIEL Rashford we’d have let your kids all starve
And whilst we’re on the subject, of food and animal welfare
We’re allowing chlorinated chicken, cos truly we don’t care
And for dessert there’s Aussie Timtams, a better deal than our EU neighbours
Brought to you from the party, that favours party favours
I think you get the idea now, I’ve done my full days shift
20 minutes is quite enough, time to get into my fridge.

 

 

 

What a load of Nonsense

Two Cats and a Nelly

“The Cats and the Elephant”

Bored of sitting on mats the two alley cats
were down, for something radically new
so with their heads put together, cats Teresa and Trevor
decided to visit the zoo

and one cat said

‘Well it’s not quite a pet, but we’ll never forget
if we free old Nelly, from that there place’
so they set off in glee, audaciously
with Teresa setting the pace

They soon reached the zoo, cats one and two
the place that was hell, to old Nell
and they then set about, to get Nelly out
before the elephant, needed the loo

Nell clambered up and away, as one cat did pray
but Nelly’s trumpeting drowned out that thought
then the three of them legged it
‘cos the zoo keeper was dead set
on ensuring the elephant was caught

His parents to blame for this zoo-keeper’s name
as a Scotsman, they called him Jock
but oh what a trap, cos their surname was Strap
Mum and Dad to the Magistrate’s dock

Oh how he wandered, his mind over-pondered
the Strapping lad pursued, blowing hard
and the cats and dear Nelly, laughed at his fat belly
and then played, their ace winning card

Nelly stopped for a bit, and had a big shit
just as Jock was about to pounce
and he got stuck in among, the pile of fresh dung
elephant shit countenance

Jock not fit for the chase, with full faeces on face
he stopped running, after the three
they got clean away, free as the day
as Jock went home, stinking, for tea

So what can we learn from this tale of pachyderm
a lesson, that we should not ever, forget
well, no task is too great, if you have a teammate
and when minds, are correctly, set.

Once more unto the BLEACH, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility

“Mr Boombastic” by Shaggy – PARODY

Me Mr Sarcastic
You want some sarcastic disinfectant lover

She call me Mr Sarcastic
Say me is drastic
Much dead me brain
She says I’m Doh Doh
La La head, me disinfect
Much dead me brain
I say I’m Mr True

Ruse, just like my ilk
aloft and muddly I’m full of guilt
I’m a terrible lover
No shake me full of filth
Me dodgy dextral antique, you know me well jilt
Oh me oh my, oh hell hell

I’ll get jazzed on the joint
Like my mallow mallow mind
Come lay down on me sunbed, get some trouble time
Only sound you will hear is me bleating blind
And we will hmm hmm, I’m the cheating kind

Me Mr Sarcastic
You want some disinfectant lover…

I Contain Multitudes

Bob Dylan. Image via Teller Report

So we are in Lockdown. The Corona virus ruling the world like a pretender. Many have extra time on the hands, perfect for creativity in the arts, but how is our collective imagination at the moment? For me, creativity is there, but not overflowing. Some artists have posted on social media that creativity is lacking. For me, I am enjoying nature walks, close to home I might add.

Our peoples poet, Mr Bob, has released new material during this pandemic crisis. I latched on to his 2nd release, ‘I Contain Multitudes’. After hearing it on Vevo/YouTube, I instantly felt that it needed some kind of response from me.

Just after this a local poet here in Leicester, Cathi Rae aka RubiesAndDuels, posted on the Leicester group site SomeAntics, detailing a writing exercise to while away a couple of hours. The instruction, to take a poetic piece say 20-40 lines, copy it into Google translate and translate from English to another, then that translation to another, then to another, say 3 or 4 times, finally back to English. The end result, a rather jumbled version of the original text. After this, cut up the piece into lines and rearrange into your own form.

So of course I chose Dylan’s ‘Multitudes’ piece. Incidentally, on looking this up I found that the great Walt Whitman used this idiom ahead of Dylan. Also Dylan name-checks some other greats within his piece, William Blake, The Rolling Stones, Anne Frank and an ‘all the young dudes’ tip of the hat to Bowie.

My translation choices were: English – Danish – Italian – Russian – Japanese – English.

Above: Walt Whitman, Anne Frank, David Bowie

So here is Dylan’s original lyrics, followed by my multi-translation/cut-up:

“I Contain Multitudes” Bob Dylan

Today and tomorrow, and yesterday, too
The flowers are dying like all things do
Follow me close, I’m going to Balian Bali
I’ll lose my mind if you don’t come with me
I fuss with my hair, and I fight blood feuds
I contain multitudes

Got a tell-tale heart, like Mr. Poe
Got skeletons in the walls of people you know
I’ll drink to the truth and the things we said
I’ll drink to the man that shares your bed
I paint landscapes, and I paint nudes
I contain multitudes

Red Cadillac and a black moustache
Rings on my fingers that sparkle and flash
Tell me, what’s next? What shall we do?
Half my soul, baby, belongs to you
I relic and I frolic with all the young dudes
I contain multitudes

I’m just like Anne Frank, like Indiana Jones
And them British bad boys, The Rolling Stones
I go right to the edge, I go right to the end
I go right where all things lost are made good again
I sing the songs of experience like William Blake
I have no apologies to make
Everything’s flowing all at the same time
I live on the boulevard of crime
I drive fast cars, and I eat fast foods
I contain multitudes

Pink petal-pushers, red blue jeans
All the pretty maids, and all the old queens
All the old queens from all my past lives
I carry four pistols and two large knives
I’m a man of contradictions, I’m a man of many moods
I contain multitudes

You greedy old wolf, I’ll show you my heart
But not all of it, only the hateful part
I’ll sell you down the river, I’ll put a price on your head
What more can I tell you? I sleep with life and death in the same bed
Get lost, madame, get up off my knee
Keep your mouth away from me
I’ll keep the path open, the path in my mind
I’ll see to it that there’s no love left behind
I’ll play Beethoven’s sonatas, and Chopin’s preludes
I contain multitudes

Bob Dylan’s “I Contain Multitudes” after Google translating through Danish, then Italian, then Russian, then Japanese and finally back to English. Then lines cut and rearranged.

Shake your hair to fight hostility
Follow me carefully, I go to Bali
Today, tomorrow, and yesterday
A lot

I’m a controversial person, I’m a different mood
I play Beethoven Sonata and Chopin Prelude
I drive a fast car and eat fast food
A lot

Red cadillac and black cable
I enjoy, and enjoy with all the young people
I’m Anne Frank, like Indiana Jones
Flowers die like everyone

I leave the way open, the way in my head
I drink the truth and what we said
I’ll lose my head if you’re not together
Half of my soul’s darling is yours

Every beautiful girl and every old queen
Go straight to the limit, go to the end
Pink petals button, red blue jeans
A flashing ring

I have an eloquent heart like Mr. Poe
There is a skeleton on the wall of the person who knows
And these bad British people, Rolling Stone
Sing experiences like William Blake
A lot

I live in detective boulevard
Ugly old wolf, I show you my heart
All the old queens of my past life
Keep your mouth away from me

Please tell me the details
Sleep dead alive in the same bed
But not all, only the disliked part
Everything flows at the same time
A lot

Draw a landscape and draw naked
Drink for someone sharing a bed
I sell you by the river, I’ve set the price on your head
I only go to where all the lost stuff goes well again

I’m sure there is no love left
Become a lost woman, step down your knees
There is no excuse
I have 4 pistols and 2 big knives

What’s next? What will you do?

Churchill had a black dog, but what about those black birds?

“When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
When the hurlyburly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.
That will be ere the set of sun.”

  • Shakespeare

 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“On the Edge with Edgar” (some f words may sound better read as ‘fly’)

Now that Mr Allen POE, really had a go
at putting words together, now I’ll TRY
to find the words that fit and in comfort might sit
together, as friends who laugh or cry.

Now I ain’t misbehavin’ when I speak of the Raven
who perches, as the omen above our door
Cos as you may know, that damned bird should go
It can fuck off, and when done, fuck off some more.

Cos to mess with the portals, of us mere mortals
Is a  despicable act, I may say
Cos it leaves us, not knowing,
whether we’re coming or going
we seem lost whether it’s night or the day.

Now another thing I’ve heard, it may be true or absurd
Is that the ravens of London’s Tower, are the Queens
and that if they flutter off, the Queen’s head could come orf
Now that would make for a bloody scene.

Are our bedrooms really towers, with bird-guards and powers
keeping us people locked up, mindlessly?
Well the birds have fucked off, they’ve flown
every one we can disown
the birds, you, and me can be free.

 

Part of the Furniture…

Bradgate Writers today, Tuesday 10 March, facilitated by Brandon Oliver.

Everyday phrases and cut-up Poems made for a very good session indeed.

“I don’t understand”

these infernal instructions. Every time it’s the same. We visit the special Swedish embassy for furniture self-assembly, IKEA, EKEA, however you KEA say it, it’s always the same. You get home and that little stick-man is there, all smiley and staring at you from the instruction sheet. The little furniture assembly demon, grinning from EKEA ear to ear, in ecstasy awaiting the swearing and gnashing of teeth as you cannot distinguish the A1 nuts from the B2 ones. You cannot put it together, and you’re not altogether yourself. And then the blessed advice from your loved one, drop the EKEA and get on EBAY. Search for a pre-loved, pre-owned, PRE-ASSEMBLED unit, half the price and half the distance from your nearest scandalous Scandinavian site. Job done. Balls to it. Meatballs that is. Oh and Italian meatballs at that.

The Return of the Bradgate Writers 2020

The Bradgate Writers sessions resumed yesterday to set off into 2020. Peter Buckley leading. Apparently elephants and elevators are a thing the start of this season, and so the elephants of our room were addressed. I teamed up with Ravi for some pop pop boom collaboration, or maybe it was poop poop boom in a messy looking lift?

The new year arrived, I watched it on the telly
The champagne bubbles can be bad for your belly
The bubbles did burst, I saw an elephant dance
I was waiting for an elevator to take me to France
The lift doors did open, there wasn’t much room
The elephant was in there, pop pop boom
I squeezed myself in, avoiding the elephant dung
I can’t quite believe how this new year’s begun
I wanted ‘up’ in the lift, but it was only going down
The lift is very heavy with an elephant in town.

Is it the Final Countdown? Susie Dent and Me.

“Susie Dent and Me”

I play with words, I put them together
attach them, blend them, join them, tether
but here is the latest, here is the news
it’s time, for me, to have a new muse
don’t get me wrong, things have been okay
but me and my words, need a new way
to fuse ink into page, and my voice to find
something more fanciful to embrace and bind
a new plan is needed, I think what is meant
is a countdown to me marrying Miss Susie Dent!
Now you may have heard of her, she’s on the TV
she’s flirty on Countdown, oh flirt with me
the wordy goddess, in dictionary corner
she leaves me agog, and ever so hornier
she sings to me words, both ancient and new
well I may be a poet, but my words are too few
I follow her on Twitter, but I’m not her stalker
but fast forward a few months down the aisle I might walk her
Us, Mr and Mrs, King and Queen of the word
I know it’ll happen, don’t say it’s absurd
I’ll send my sweet love, in letters each day,
this love book I’ll build, then we’ll roll in the hay
screaming obscure words from her Twitter feed
that I knew not of, but I’m thankful I need
her as bride at my side, in my heart and my head
my books will be best-sellers, I’ll be widely read
and what is more, our future, will be, beyond estimation
cos after the wedding there’s that, you know, consummation
and then the pitter patter of new, adverbing nouns
who’ll grow up and sing, to all the villages and towns
princes and princesses in beautiful song
and the youth of the country will all tag along…
aahhh, wait a minute – a reality check
I’m getting carried away, I’m not the full deck
the cards all need checking, from ace to king
did I seriously think she’d wear my wedding ring?
Oh my fanciful thoughts, back to reason and fact
Maybe I’m the joker, in the playing card pack.

Statue and Statute, some Astor(ia) ain’t so starry, where do you store good faith?

Are you posh, plenty of dosh
Do you speak of the great unwashed?
Does your account, amount
To sums of money, all day to count?
Does your thinking, stretch to tinkering
Ensuring lives of plebs are sinking
Rich your stinking
But I say shit
Are you fit, to offer wisdom and quick wit, at the dinner parties where you sit,
Where you could charm, and banish harm
And for stormy weather bring some calm
To the lives of the unfortunately affected.
Or is your cheating game perfected
Around an Astor idol, wrongly erected
And smiling down on a slaved nation
Does truth sit inside your explanation
Detonation detonation
The boom within her bust.