At the end of the road (election night request from BBC Somerset)

The wait is nearly over, time for us to see,
Que sera sera,what will be will be.
All that pent up feeling building up inside
At least will have a vent, one party to deride.
It's supposed to be democracy so we can have a say
Not all of us can win but come back another day.
We proudly state our values, for the many not the few
We celebrate a melting pot, a multiethnic stew
of talent and believers and the morally lacking
and find out exactly the extent of voters backing.
The teams of all observers are looking very still,
those wearing three colours quite frankly make me ill,
but quite soon it will be over, when tensions all laid bare
it's then that we discover that no one really cares.

On passing

ON PASSING

Our dad, a man of action, of determined state of mind,
to climb from humble status, the middle class to find.
Leaving school at fourteen would be the normal way
and start work as an office boy with very little pay.
So if not by education could he stake a place,
then by dint of major effort and a smile upon his face.
Called to war like many and proud to play a part,
but coming home on leave to find their house was blown apart;
his mother killed there instantly, his sister gravely hurt,
civilian losses mounting in London dust and dirt.

In finding his life partner it seems that there was fate,
it was not Mum he went to see, but a sister for to date.
The rest they say is history and a family to support,
a car to wash on Sundays and sport and sport and sport;
as kids he taught us swimming and some friends along the way
and always helped our relatives with whom he used to stay.
When digging in the garden some jobs he'd find for us,
'it'll only take five minutes' meant we'd always miss the bus.
A routine and a ritual were what made our Dad tick,
morning kettle on the gas stove, for electric was too quick,
to get around the garden, scoop the poop and water it.
He’d check the weekly bonfires, with meths so carefully lit.

We had to breathe in big, deep, breaths, on brisk walks on 'The Hurst',
there racing to the gravel slides, to see who'd get down first
and back for tea at weekends, with 'Dixon' on at seven,
to the coast with kites at Greatstone or later off to Devon.
He took charge of the shopping and parked three miles away,
but save a penny ha'penny and that would make his day.
With mum he'd go out dancing, on Wednesday nights, their treat,
they'd quickstep, waltz and foxtrot as with their friends they'd meet;
with bargains bought in January at Simpsons on the Strand
t'was possible to think sometimes our dad could be quite grand,
with holidays at Bailey Farm, near Teignmouth, by the sea
he'd make us all play cricket, then scones and cream for tea;
but even there he'd disappear a phone call just to take,
a business deal or two or three; well what a lucky break.
The timber trade top salesman laid off at fifty nine
he bounced back with a vengeance and did not bide his time,
the forty years of contacts were clearly worth much more
introducing many customers that he had served before.
When finally retirement called, to Somerset he came,
surrounded by the family, a dog to walk and train.

When illness struck our David with Mum he fussed and ran,
as when he managed Stanley Park, the football team's best fan.
The grandchildren were taught the same, both feet to kick the ball,
endlessly to hit that thing up and down the hall,
he'd pester Mum with half sized fruit, or loiter by the sink,
to wash your cup before you'd even barely had a drink.

Before we close some final thoughts to bring to your attention
as Crystal Palace Football Club has yet to have a mention;
along with beans and raspberry canes, all tended with great care
and when it came to 'picking time' a chore he'd happily share,
his stock remark, when job was done, deflecting workers' sorrow,
'I think you've had enough for now, there's always more tomorrow'.

Our dad left us good memories; he always played the game,
So now he's gone we know that life will never be the same;
determined, always generous, that spirit never left,
an innings played with gusto, although we are bereft,
we recognise the character, the good bits he passed on,
the words of tunes that oft he sang, although quite often wrong,
replaced with care, so it became a well remembered song,
that we can sing now to declare a life lived long and strong
and proudly be that family to which we all belong.

Promises to Wells electorate request from BBC

To amplify your voice in the London roar
If its help you need, I'll give you more
of my time and experience cos I work for you
Whatever your colour, whatever you do.
I'll campaign for co-ops more houses and jobs,
And keep you informed with letters and blogs,
Whilst thoughtful and patient, decisions I take
and this is a candidate not on the make.
I'm a teacher, a parent and rugby referee
A perfect package I'm sure you'll agree.
From Shepton, Chilcompton, Highbridge or Street
You'll find me campaigning to capture this seat
To work for the many; not just the few;
By acting together we can get rid of blue.

hopenothate

so a mr boyce will be the voice of the nasty bnp
the racist thugs with ugly mugs will be there on tv
but we don't care what they look like it's the vile things they say
suggesting those of colour should simply go away

the passing generation will be turning in their graves
but old soldiers never die, they simply fade away
our weapons are not pack or gun the vote can win the day
the cross is mightier than the sword, our words will hold the sway

but to beat the evil policies the bnp espouse
we need to rally voters, their anger to arouse,
to campaign hard, to stem the hate, the bnp can't hide,
behind a flag red white and blue, cos with it we will ride.

we too can fight on beaches, we know all about the sand,
no need to get our feet wet though to make our valid stand
we'll send the fascists packing, make sure they stay away
No time now to hang around, get up, let's start today

OFSTED and the HOLEY KOW

Our 'Trust' school is saving neither planet nor trees
keeps sending us paper so our kids will'achieve'
The target of targets, the really must get
Is a long way from happiness we must not forget
For Janet and John have come a long way(is A* required to allow them to say )
that the thing they want most is respect and fair play
So 'best out of everyone' sounds a good call
but let's hear from those who may stutter or stall
in the drive to perfection by the stuffing of heads
to see if they're happy and spoke to Ofsted
I rather expect that they kept from the fray
To let the grandmaster have 'face' on the day

Humanitarian Aid

equality begins when we're dead
check out what bodies in Haiti said
no one seem to say much when we alive
scratching around just to survive
it takes a big rumble way underground
that tumbles our buildings and bodies around
for people around the rich world to say
let's rush out some soldiers to save the day
we'll pour in our conscience add some water and bread
at least those bodies will look like they fed

go back to thinking of those still alive
come up with a strategy that helps them to thrive

GB 4 GB

Roll up, roll up, the election has begun,
Bring forward 3 contenders,to see whose number one,
N.C = No Chance, though Cleggy is his name,
D.C = Di C Dave of fluffy policy fame.

G.B is the Gordon Brown who brought us where we are,
With help of Labour Ministers we think he is the star,
He saved us from the very brink of financial disaster,
Globally the firm consent, that GB was the master.

So step up to the plate D.C with your plan of doing nothing,
Let's make sure the voters know and give you a good stuffing
And nice NC just stand aside, for lib dems dilly dally,
We have our leader good and strong and round him we will rally.

Great Britain deserves the best for the many not the few,
So don't put us in jeopardy by wavering to blue,
That's not the inheritance your children want from you
but faith in those decisions that help us all come through.