THE DANCING DID

SQUASHED THINGS

THE HAUNTED TEA ROOMS

THE HUMAN CHICKEN

BADGER BOYS

WOLVES OF WORCESTERSHIRE

THE HEADMASTER AND THE FLY

BALLAD OF THE DYING SIGH

CHARNEL BOY

WITHIN THE GREEN GREEN AVON 0

THE DANCING DID

Below the haze of a sun-drenched spire
Of a ruined abbeys remaining tower
lies a market town in Worcestershire
(Can you hear it? I can hear it, yeah.)
Old market gardeners bring their fruit and veg yields
to this busy little island, in its sea of fields
But nothing much moves there under the blazing sun
except for lorries to the canneries carrying plums
And a figure on the high road, as he ambles into town
for a Friday evening he’s always there, about there this time.

With a red coat of dust on his hobnailed boots
A black mirror finish on his well-worn suit
Oak bark skin and squinting eye
a deep-pored hook nose, broken flies
Roll-ups in his pocket, he whistles like a lark
A razor in his waistcoat, playful as a shark
Although his teeth don’t sparkle, his pocket watch shines
And says his six o clock shadow is right on time
the road is his home, the ditch is his billet
he’s got a hat on his head, with a pheasant feather in it

Now some may call him Ragamuffin, Rambler, Alley sloper,
Vagrant, Scatterling, Ne’er-do-well, Vagabond, Landloper,
Stroller, Wanderer, Rover, Scruffy ‘erbert, Vicious Sid,
But folks round here just know him as The Dancing Did

The dancing didicoi, the dancing didicoi
Since he was a boy, he’s been a dancing did…

In the back room of The Blue Boar the jukebox blares out country and western sounds
And there he stands surrounded by a crowd, carefully gyrating
A mug of cider in his hands as his toecaps tap the ground

The audience laugh and shout and clap, and throw coins at his feet
For entertainment in a small town, you’ll find this hard to beat.

Now some may call him Ragamuffin, Rambler, Alley sloper,
Vagrant, Scatterling, Ne’er-do-well, Vagabond, Landloper,
Stroller, Wanderer, Rover, Scruffy ‘erbert, Vicious Sid,
But folks round here just know him as The Dancing Did

The dancing didicoi, the dancing didicoi
Since he was a boy, he’s been a dancing did…

SQUASHED THINGS
Death throes in the hedgerows, bones beneath the grass
Flesh and fur and gravel mix, as giant cars crush past
Insects on the windscreens, feathers on the grille
Skulls along the bumpers, red coatings to the sills

Of squashed things.

Airborne fowl make fatal flights, rodents fatal runs
Slugs make fatal slithers to a cliff edge one by one
All share one long grey graveyard, one hallowed stretch of ground
That countless fours of phantom paws, plod around.

Squashed things on the road.

Driving is so tedious, turn the radio on
Switch the heater up full blast, speed along
Cocooned in a cosy corner, at the wheel, on the side. in the front
Gliding along in perfect comfort - what was that bump?

Fox to rook, slug to deer
Can to hedgehog, all lust smears of…

Squashed things on the road.

THE HAUNTED TEA ROOMS
The dusk crawls in the day is done
The door is locked, the people are gone.
The darkness creeps and the shadows fall
Through empty rooms with crowded walls
Where framed red huntsmen hang and stare
And crockery rabbits and chocolate deers
Are lined along the shelves and the windowsills
while the bell by the door remains quite still.
Where the oak beams pine and the moonbeams shine
Striking silver lines through the gloom
Of the Haunted. Tea Rooms.
Lined up neatly on the kitchen shelves
Tonight’s meringues await tomorrow’s mouths.
scones stand still as hours fly by
While germs in the cream all multiply.
King Charles slept here or so they say
Tudor teaspoons, take it away
King Charles slept here or so they say
out the Haunted Tea Rooms, are haunted by day.
Haunted by...fat white ladies
Haunted by...chomping churls
Haunted by...spotty schoolboys
Haunted by...spotty schoolgirls
Haunted by...regatta natter
Haunted by...housewives groans
Haunted by...chintzy chatter
Haunted by...day tripper drone.

THE HUMAN CHICKEN

“It had a big black beak
Big yellow feet
Little red eyes
Bright blue feathers
It was very clever
All the cockerels were afraid
No wonder,
seventeen stone it weighed
It was the HUMAN CHICKEN
Human chicken, human chicken, human chicken,
With a thing like that around you couldn’t relax
Even the foxes hunted in packs.”

BADGER BOYS

“Unctuous prattling Pecksniffs, quake quail and quiver,
As the Badger Boys glide down the street, like pike in an empty river.
Inhabiting the back alleys where no gentleman goes,
Skulking in the shadows, secret as a murder of crows.
Four surly churls, four brainless boys,
With aimless chatter and dangerous toys.
They keep their distance, they stand apart,
But their cloistered whispers chill my heart.
Badger Boys, bullies, beasts, brainless,
Badger Boys, bullies, beasts, brainless,
Badger Boys, bullies, beasts, brainless,
Brainless, beasts, bullies. Badger Boys.
Gold fillings in their pockets, diseases in their teeth,
Nightmares in their mattresses, riches
stitched into their sleep.
The Deadly Dandies, The Poison Brothers,
Racetrack riff-raff of gin house mothers.
Purposeless pickpockets, pigsty lodgers,
Unfaithful lovers, unartful dodgers.
Urchins they are but the gentry they shun,
The toffs of the toughs, the cream of the scum.
Knuckledusters nestle with stolen lockets

WOLVES OF WORCESTERSHIRE
In a grassy cove off a lonely road,
Some travellers made their stop.
Five caravans stuck like warts on a toad,
In a hedgerow parking lot.
A silver moon lay overhead,
The ground around it shone,
As their camp fires and portable T. V.s flickered,
Then expired one by one by one by one by one. .
Suddenly into the night,
There comes a sound primeval. .
A baying screeching scraping sound
Of undiluted evil.
Travellers wake and wet themselves,
Their dogs bark to the night,
Though they know not what lurks in those fields,
Heard but out of sight.
Wolves the wolves of Worcestershire,
Striking fear, striking fear.
Wolves the wolves of Worcestershire,
Striking fear into the hearts,
Of the denizens of those deserted parts.
Retired judges tremble
From inside rose clad bungalows.
Fruit picker vigilantes
Stand picking strawberries on their toes.
All around this ancient shire,
The local people live and cower.
(The Villager’s Refrain)
‘Never walk in woods alone,
When evening comes don’t ever roam.
Little children have been known
To be eaten up and left as bones
On their way home from school.
So bar your windows, bolt your homes
And never never never never
Never never never never
Never never never never
Never never never never
Walk in woods in Worcestershire alone.’
Foxes in the suburbs, squirrels in the parks,
Starlings in the mausoleums,
swallows in the dark,
Battles in the belfry,
buckshot in the deer,
Weevils in the windmills
...and wolves in Worcestershire.

THE HEADMASTER AND THE FLY
A quiet darkened, quite still, no enquiries,
headmaster’s study.
Suffocating oak panels,
smothering in soft shiny beeswax.
Yellow painted plaster mock Tudor roses
dripping from the ceiling.
Tiger skin blending into faded blood red
thread-bare carpet.
Diamond-paned, nicotine stained glass
windows.
A mighty pigskin covered desk, with ornate,
ivory, antique inkstand.
Behind the desk a man . .
The head. . master.
Dustless eyelids open
And revealed in the reflection
Of his large pupils . . a small pupil
Requiring summary correction.
Bulging eyes regard the boy
With measured mock astonishment,
Then a raising of eyebrows and grinding of teeth
Heralds the coming admonishment.
Pursed lips open alligator slow, as a deep red
tongue flicks around its dark wet home.
Words fall croaking out. . bump off the huge
desk, bang round the walls,
Climb up mullioned windows . . but miss the
young miscreant’s ears.
It’s then that the fly appears . .
No knocks or appointments, just straight
through the window.
Its black shiny body makes straight for the
dead smell of the headmaster,
Where it wildly buzzes around his head, like
a playful miniature vulture.
A precise, thin, white, chalk steeped swat
misses the circling insect,
As it farts and darts away . .
To a speck of dust where it sheds a million
germs that run amock,
And copulate unnoticed on the headmaster’s desk top.
It climbs and dives, it climbs and dives, it
climbs and dives, it climbs 0and dives,
It loops the loop, it drops a mid-air shit
without a care,
As the ancient man drones on and on, it
screeches through the air,
As the ancient man drones on and on, it
screeches through the air,
As the ancient man drones on and on, it
screeches through the air,
As the ancient man drones on and on, it
screeches through the air . . . . . . . .

BALLAD OF THE DYING SIGH
The maiden lies twixt silken sheets, upon her comfy bed,
But around her cosy bedchamber, all kinds of nasty obstacles
are shed .
There are gin-traps on the landing,
Tin tacks round the floors abound,
And trip wires on the ceiling . .
Her valiant suitors to confound.
An ogre keeps her prisoner,
A twelve bore under his arm,
For the ogre is her Father
And the prison is a farm.
The prison is a farm boys, the prison is a farm.
The prison is a farm boys, the prison is a farm.
‘Young master, young master, you only court disaster’
A steeped in darkness farmyard,
The beasts are all locked up in bed,
But around the end of the farmyard hen-pen
Skulks a vulpine head.
The head belongs to a prowler,
Outlined ‘gainst a star pricked sky,
But chickens are not on the prowler’s mind,
For the prowler it is I.
The prowler it is I boys, the prowler it is I.
The prowler it is I boys, the prowler it is I.
I must I must see see her again
I cannot take this awful pain.
I must I must see see her again
I cannot take this awful pain
Awful pain, awful pain, awful pain, awful pain,
Awful pain, awful pain, awful pain, awful pain,
This awful pain I cannot take,
I wish to wake her up and take her away.
‘Young master, young master, you only court disaster’
Like a moth I was drawn to her glowing bedroom opposite
And lusting for her lambency, I knew I had to enter it.
Stealthily I climbed the dark shiny ivy,
That clasped and clawed the whitewashed wall,
At last I reached the glow from her window,
Saw my lover lying within and made a call.
I pushed the cross panes open
And nimbly slipped inside,
Then tiptoed over the tin tacks,
In a moment I was at her side.
I wrapped her in her eiderdown
And laid her over my shoulder,
Then exited where I’d entered,
In every movement growing bolder.
I skidded down the ivy,
Landing in the yard,
I deftly dodged the waking watchdogs,
Then never did I run so hard.
Never did I run so hard boys, never did I run so hard,
Never did I run so hard boys, never did I run so hard.
At last at a young brook’s edge,
We came to the shelter of a willow tree.
This was the time and place I decided
To put an end to my misery.
I pulled my lover’s cover open,
Exposed bare face to morning sky,
But misery oh misery,
Her greeting was her dying sigh.
Her greeting was her dying sigh boys, greeting was her dying
sigh,
Her greeting was her dying sigh boys, greeting was her dying
sigh.
Chorus
I wish I’d woken her up and not taken
I wish I’d woken her up and not taken
I wish I’d woken her up and not taken
Her.... away..........

CHARNEL BOY

I’m the Charnel Boy,
Bone inspector,
Unpaid pagan spectral rector.
Sheep grass boy with lupine whine,
Wood stained skin and eyes incarnadine,
And eyes and eyes incarnadine
Incarnad-eyes incarnadine.
I tend. .
Tend the Tutankhamens of England,
And visit every barrow sooner or later,
I’m the ancient king curator.
Move like a mist, like a will-o’-the-wisp,
I’m the archetypal archeologist.
Every night at a different charnel ground
I make my ritual habitual rounds
From rolling southern downs
To winding northern wall,
To barn owl’s hoot, goat-sucker’s call,
I search and scrape across the landscape.
Move like a mist, like a will-o’-the-wisp
Move like a mist, like a will-o’-the-wisp
Move like a mist, like a will-o’-the-wisp.
But water-meadows bog me down,
I’ve got to be on the whistling
High ground,
Where I smell out barrow bones,
Like a lurcher smells out rodent’s hidden homes
Like a lurcher smells out hidden homes
Like a lurcher smells out hidden homes . .

WITHIN THE GREEN GREEN AVON 0
Pike eat pike, pike eat pike,
Pike eat pike, pike eat pike,
Pike eat pike, pike eat pike,
Pike eat pike, pike eat pike,
Pike eat pike, carp kiss,
Cross currents criss cross criss.
Slow motion combat amongst the weeds,
As tench on battling bullhead feeds.
Beetle boatmen sink and float,
Below the whirr of mosquitoes
Below the whirr of mosquitoes.
Against a dustless pebbly bed,
Hurling whirlpools rhythms shed.
Bubbled gurgles GO GO GO
Within the green green Avon 0
Within the green green Avon 0
Constant turmoil, instant fright,
Lugubri-land of hidden bite,
Where rocks may move with teeth and eye
And bogus snacks hang from the sky.
Bogus snacks hang from the sky,
Bogus snacks hang from the sky.

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