Royal Wedding

NB For a musical version of this poem, please click on My songs above

Let bells ring out from every steeple
For Arab kings who kill their people
Peers in ermine, standard bearers
Titled flunkeys, cassock wearers
The oligarchy and its muscle
Doing the Royal Wedding hustle

The BBC on bended knee
Lends a hushed servility
To this ritualised display
Of social inequality
Members of the fourth estate
Drooling at the rich man's gate

Old queens and aristos merge
There's Elton John, the demiurge
The orange, warbling royal pal
Sang at Diana's funeral
Wealth is the only qualification
For his elevated station

Cheers announce from every place

The dregs of a degraded race
The idle rich and hangers-on
In this ghastly marathon
Behind the gilded palace door
They are scroungers, not the poor

John Betjeman visits Peckham

Sleek and red the sixty-three

Bicycles and vans converge

Peckham’s traffic mingled in

Cacophonous proximity

The noisy vendors’ thrust and glare

Flows to the pulse of Africa

Beauty is on offer here –

False eyelashes and human hair

Scrawny chickens and breadfruit

Mobile phone accessories

The ocean’s harvest, fresh and dried

Giant yams, cassava root

Even the vegetable displays

Assault the eyes garishly

The crimson peppers shimmering

In an exotic cabaret

Affirmed in passion and blood

The dance of life confirms

In texture and continuity

That existence itself is good

And in the churches of Rye Lane

Hope is offered to the poor

Between the pound shop and Aldi
They wait for Christ to rise again



Note: in adopting this rhythm (as springy as a new mattress) I took on some of Betjeman's religiosity, although I didn't mean to, and his sentimentality. However, it's noticeable that Peckham's colour is scarlet and that it  has more churches than pubs. I love the place.

The River Wreake, Brooksby

What my life lacks is tranquility

People writhe like maggots to the top

And sink, and seethe in obscurity

Selling their CDs; it never stops.

A brief time away is all I ask

From this relentless self-expression –

London, where the poet’s lonely mask

Hides solipsism and depression.

Here, there are no angry commuters

Only the river's rippling green thread

No violent rhymes, no computers.
It's a peaceful return; instead

My canoe drifts between crack willows

The wind plucks at my sides and billows

My dog is gonna mess you up

You've pissed me off wiv your attitude

You ain’t got no reason to stare

Like I was nuffink. It was rude

The way you was lookin at me … yeh.

Until then, I was gonna let it go

But then you’ve looked at me funny

You’ve done my ’ead in, bruv, and so

I’m gonna take your phone ‘an your money.

I ain’t no-one yeh, I’ve got rights

An’ so does my mate here, my pup

He’s the one what keep me safe at nights.

My dog is gonna mess you up.

Wiv the lead off, he is fissile

My dog is like a cruise missile.

Move on

http://willhatchett.blogspot.com/p/my-songs.html

It’s time to move on
Time to succeed
Time to shed your friends

Like an old skin

It’s time to begin

Time to start again

You never stuck in the knife

I stuck it in my myself

Move on, don’t look back

It’s OK. I won’t make a fuss

Move along. There was no us

There was no arc

No walks in the park

We never held each other

In the dark

We never laughed

We never cried

There was no love

We never tried

Move on, cos you’re right

I am mediocre

Your light shines bright

An I am guttering out

Like a dead star

No fuss, don’t shout

I’m wrong you were right

Move on - tonight

Gm7

It’s time to succeed
Time to begin
A7

Shed your friends Like an old skin

Bb7      A7            Gm7

Move on ... move on

We never cried. We never laughed (same chord pattern)

Never held each other in the dark

Move on ... move on

Cm7                                                Gm7

Oh you never stuck in the knife. I stuck it in my myself

Cm7                                          D9                         Eb9-D9
It’s OK. I won’t make a fuss. Because there was never us

Gm7

Move on

There was no love between us two An I will get over you 

You will forget me soon, move on

Instrumental break over V chords x 2 then return to chorus chords

The time has come, I guess your right I'm a mediocrity

And now you star is burning bright I've got to get out of your light Move on


It’s time to succeed Time to begin Shed your friends 

Like an old skin Move on ... move on 

We never cried We never laughed  Never held each other in the dark

Move on ... move on


The end has come cos it's your choice To pull the plug on us

Compared to you, I'm just a lout I wouldn't want to put you out. Move on


Instrumental to end



NB: A bath full of tears for the best interpreter of this song. It's a kind of fast rumba sung in the style of Jeff Buckley

It's not right

For AJ and Gianni

Why is the sky brown?
Why does trees grow down?
Why do snails bite?
Why do all babies
Love to fight?
Some things are not right.

Why do worms taste nice?
Why do cats like mice?
Why are clouds so strong?
Why do elephants sing
Such beautiful songs?
Some things are just wrong.

Why do squirrels glow?
Why do snakes like snow?

Why do horses moo?

And why is the grass

In the park so blue?

I don't know. Do you?

Why do sweets grow on trees?
Why do rabbits like cheese?
Why are clowns always sad
And why does chocolate
Taste so bad?
Some things are just mad.

Why do you want to be Miss Hip Hop Beauty UK?

You ask the question, in response, I say

It's, currently, my top priority

Because the sky over Birmingham is grey

Because the house sparrows have gone away

Because I’m hot; because it’s my birthday

Because the linear notion of time

Was placed in jeopardy by Albert Einstein

And jus cos, well … it’s what I want, OK.

You say my desire lacks moral integrity

“Miss”,“hip hop” and “beauty”, you interject

Are all politically incorrect

And my main reason is a tautology.

You know what. I don’t care cos … hey

I want to be Miss Hip Hop Beauty UK


A ringer. Petrarchan and Shakespearian sonnets welded together.