PC. PC. PC
Political correctness.
When things get difficult
When reason should prevail.
When all else begins to fail,
How great to be able to say,
“It’s politically correct’.
When really we know quite correctly,
It’s simply an abrogation of responsibility.
In other words PC. PC. PC.
Town and Around
Sunny day great to be outside,
Slight breeze clouds fluffy.
Plenty of time no hurry,
Shops bright goods aplenty.
Fun to watch faces intent
To find bargains for money spent.
Leave the shops, walk in the sun
Sounds of vehicles, Fuel, Pollution.
Petrol, Diesel, Smokey oil,
Enough to make the senses recoil
Still for all this it’s great outside
Slight breeze, clouds fluffy,
Plenty of time, no hurry
Horses and Ploughs
How straight is your furrow,
How good your line-o-sight.
How quick the flick of your wrist
How nimble of foot and quick of twist.
Forward at a steady walk
No time here for talk.
Bridle bits ring and jingle, Shoulder collars creak
Collar chains on hooks squeak.
The aroma of newly turned earth
Mingles with the smell of horse sweat,
Horse dung and liniment.
All gear tight -n-neat
With shoes of steel on their feet.
Ian’s Sight
(Or lack there of)
I have heard of wandering eyes
Of eyes that light up like neon’s
Of hearts that gallop and jump
Of breathing that sounds like a pump
Wistful stares and thoughts past
When a young fella thought he was fast
These modern girls leave him aghast.
Now you will ask
How can you keep up to the task?
With old tired bones
That weren’t made to last
And a spirit that’s still in the past.
Ian, now with tired eyes growing dim
Seeing girls so neat and slim
Legs bare to the top rim
Makes him scream
Where’s all my vigour and vim
As the girls sashay out of sight
Ian begins to wonder, where’s my eyesight.
Scorched Chickens
At age fourteen I was a daring lad
With no thoughts of doing bad
However, adventurous experimentation
Large or small showed great imagination
Until a rocket I decided to build
Which was a sight to behold
Long of body wide of wing
Built to go with a zing
Rocket filled with gunpowder
Nose pointed to open fields
Fuse lit rocket lifts skywards
Rocket hisses such is it’s power
Straight up true to plan
Straight ahead to open fields
Oh. Oh. Change in course
Instead of straight and true
It pointed towards a large chicken house
Definitely not open fields
Through asbestos roof with a roar
Sparks and smoke, feathers galore
Screeching, scorched chickens
Jumping and flying out the door.
Buster
(A missed mate)
Sadly put our old mate to sleep
Enough to make a guy weep
He was a great mate,
For meals he was never late.
And all foods in sight he ate.
He was a cocker spaniel.
All sad eyed and shaggy
Couldn’t call him smart and tidy
Bath’s not thought of kindly.
But food was accepted blindly.
Though old and staid,
A great guard, he made.
Though his sight was weak.
A strong bark he did keep
He, could make your ears ring for a week:
He was aptly named Buster
And he proved to be a typical scrounger.
With his nose down and tail furiously wagging
His ears simply weren’t listening.
As he moved further away
Having no idea he had gone astray
With a whistle and strong “come”
He would hold his head high
Then with a final sniff and sigh
Buster returns ears flapping
Around us joyfully jumping
A ball game playing
As he grew older
And his beard got greyer
Buster wasn’t such an active player
More a sleeper, maybe a dreamer
Buster would sit in the sun
Dreaming of life’s race well run
Now that his race is run
Wherever he is, I hope he’s having fun.
