PMT

It always starts small
As it keeps a low profile
Not noticed at all
In the seasonal crossfire

Then builds to a hum
Ringing soft in the ears
Inner monologue numb
Overcoming all fears

With a perfectly rational
Obvious overture –
Bite stupid people
And chew on the furniture

But just a little
The day is still young
In the earliest stages
It almost seems fun

The lockjaw of anger
Is yet to appear
So we seem sympathetic
Attractive, sincere

That base urge to maim
To draw blood and salt tears
Is but hours away
But we needn’t warn peers

From the unfeeling hordes
That besiege and beset one
We’ll find one to gnaw
As we taunt and upset them

Destroy inner balance
And harmony too
As our hideous hormones
Are trying to do

Until all resolution
Is quite overcome
With extremes and confusion
Becoming the norm

When confronted with
Any adversity – woe
Betide anyone near
That we see as a foe

Insensitive, careless
And boorish demands
Mean our sensitive system
Gets quite out of hand

But the terrible power
To hurt and abuse
Only really kicks in
When we’re lost and confused

When all possible outlets
Exhausted have been
And a valve must be found
So we let off some steam

Easing tension untold
Yes the terrible pressure
Of hormones unfolds
As they grapple for treasure

An evil attempt
To subdue, to coerce,
Browbeat, hold and reduce
Overcome without mercy

Conditions of truce
Are unknown and unwanted
Our womb without use
By these phantoms is haunted

A logical Lucy
With well-ordered mind
I’ll-prepared for the chaos
Of this moon-fed time

Finds all is abandoned
Her measured, good sense
Thrown aside without caution
To sit on the fence

Catapulted to fight
All her foes in a ring
With a lack of compassion
Impaired understanding

Into truly irrational
Total submission
The perverse hysteria
Of her condition

External to those
That one normally finds
In her head is the battle
Of womb-versus-mind

At this juncture do note
There may yet be an end
If poor logical Lucy
Retains a true friend

For this is the point
At which fitness is known
Where the most passive partner
Comes into their own

In performing the service
For which they were born
They will soon prove their mettle
As golden or gone

For their duty is vital
Ensuring succession
That morn follows midnight
As goes the expression

The future of man
Hangs on one technicality
Failure to meet it
May cause a fatality

Yet it’s simplicity
If one is willing
While women are sane
To apply ears and listen

For in an emergency
Nowhere to turn
Strong familiarity
Is a great boon

And longevity may be
More certain assured
If the man is familiar
With Lucy’s hoard

For the hidden location
Of chocolatey stash
May prevent the sensation
Of grab, twist and smash

So I’m sure you’re delighted
I’ll give you a clue
Check the tin by the cooker
The rest’s up to you

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Mother’s Ruin

I had the bizarre experience the other day of being vetted by the mother of one of my collaborative partners, who seemed quite bemused to meet me in the flesh and find there is no romantic arrangement between us whatsoever. I write the lyrics, he records them. End of. This was the poetic aftermath:

Just thought I’d check you out
I worry for my son
You know he gets about
But never sticks with one

So I must do my best
As parent to my child
To sort through what is left
And stop him running wild

You seem a nice, young thing
Perhaps a little old
To be a one-time fling
Remaining pert and bold

Yet I don’t understand
You’re really not his type
There’s something underhand
I’m starting to dislike

I cannot fathom why
He still wants you kept close
When cuter girls and guys
Are thrown out over toast

Just how would you define
The nature of your part
My boy’s not yours, but mine
I hold keys to his heart

So I can lock it shut
To keep my precious boy
Far from the latest slut –
Temptations of a toy

I’m not sure what to feel
About this odd affair
You have no sex-appeal
And yet he seems to care

That I should not offend
Nor even entertain
Such notions of girlfriend
In everything but name

I guess you’re not so bad
The words are pretty cool
So sorry I seem mad
I sometimes act the fool

But promise me, my dear
Whatever else you send
Just so we both are clear
He’s mine until the end

An oath for thee, Hippocrates

Passion curling from the wires
Humours, good and ill
Twisting up in wordless fires
To smoke the mind until

All dessicated, one by one
Each thought is slowly drained
As ears are filled with shovelled dung
And feelings feeling maimed

Then comes the call to end all such
Unpleasant fractious whine
The final straw, when all – too much
Has built up over time

A gentle coo, a saving grace
Is whispered from above
And slowly turn with pained face
To greet the one we love

Ah, blessed biscuit, sacred tea
More skilled at healing’s art
Than Panacea’s family
When all has split apart

Half-Pint’s Positive Thinking

The best thing about a committee
Is there’s always somebody to blame
A convenient scapegoat to pity
While feeding the papers a name

And as all the ballots are secret
There is no-one to call out the lie
As you smile at the cameraman’s edit
One more face in a coat and a tie

Oh, we cannot condemn the committee
Just a small offering will suffice
Thus with humblest expressions of duty
We prepare for the next sacrifice

Servicing Customers

The more I try to do
For this, the misanthropic race
The less I give a damn
At each new petty, squalling case

The customer is always right
I try so hard to help
But somehow they just want to fight
And disregard all else

Abuse is but my just reward
How could I dare to hope
That one might take another’s word
As more than just a joke

It’s clearly not their problem
That they dump such attitude
Upon the person listening
To such indulgent, rude

And quite infuriating malcontents
Who do not want to hear
The answer is but common sense,
A finger in each ear

That I might make a difference
And right another’s wrongs
Would seem so far beyond the scope
Of what each call demands

So why do I still bother
To address their vain concerns?
Perhaps I have a conscience
Though respect must still be earned

Humanity is toxic
In it’s pale, pathetic way
As passive meets aggressive
And the loudest get their say

Where merit holds no currency
In worlds of bought and sold
The sway of youth from infancy
Decided in the mould

An age that takes advantage
Of compassionate display
Must find new methods to exploit
To profit from our pain

But who can tell the outcome
Of each thrust of knife to back
There is no sense in playing dumb
And yet the mask won’t crack

I do not have the answers
No, I’m just another voice
Yet I believe in second chances
And prefer to have a choice

I worry for tomorrow
That no hero saves the day
And as for all our sorrow?
How we get carried away!

Hobson’s Choice

A verdict where no evidence
Remained to paint the path
In the doorway stood conviction
Yet confused by aftermath
All the players rolled their dice
But not a winner to be found
With assumption running rife
And truth spread thinly on the ground
Just a simple little story
All the actors in a row
‘Waiting one moment of glory
Amid plans to steal the show
Messers Winsome, Worn and Weary
Staked their winnings, stacked the odds
Blew their chances to appeal
Before the judgement of the Gods

The X Factor

Creative in confusion
With the power to detain
Those who’d listen hear the fusion
Of a diff’rent kind of pain

Once a middleing existence
Was the best that one might hope
Now another fifteen minutes
Mean the girl may meet the Pope

Who can blame the world for being slow
Or making things too hard
All of life is but a gameshow
So she held the winning card

How appearance is deceiving
Any moment may undo
All the promise of an evening
Lies in ruins by the dew

The girl had surely found her feet
When she began to juggle fire
Too soon the circus clutched their seat
To see her strut across the wire

Now the bird is softly singing
As she spreads her wings to soar
Past the bitter joys of winning
She must settle ev’ry score

The white elephant of hist’ry
Now must hide itself away
For the truth remains a myst’ry
In the sober light of day