Look! my love, the water’s warm,
And we can play happily,
In the shallows near the sun kissed sand.
Sucking sands where tides run fast.
Where golden boys and ruby gorgeous girls,
Disport themselves.
Where time stands still,
For two weeks of the year.
The nightclubs are open after dark.
And in the daytime, pubs and bars,
Line up along the golden mile.
Cash machines turn your pennies,
Into pounds. And they beckon you,
One and all, calling you,
To come in. A big “welcome” is
On the mat.
And the doorman is not there,
To throw you out.
When you have been sucked dry.
By slimy leaches, and the smiling girls.
All shiny, brand spanking new.
Oh! The boredom. Yet another punter.
And they smile tiredly at your childish prattle.
They laugh brightly at your stupid jokes.
Having heard it all before.
But have to make believe,
You are the first to tell them.
So all the world’s a fruit machine.
Or cake. A euphemism, that is,
For madness and the pox.
That turns us all to stone.
By basilisk glare from,
The ugly woman with snakes in her hair.
She smiles a “come hither” smile.
Hiding venom beneath a bonnet,
Of respectability.
The coarse mocking laughter,
Electronically altered.
Until it sounds,
Almost like joyous tinkling.
Not quite truly happy, but,
The next best thing,
To real happiness.
For death is rather permanent.
And we need to have some fun.
Girls gotta have some fun.
Before we pop our clogs.
And they say all those nice things about us.
Like. “He was a fun guy,
1 Always cheerful. With a happy smile.
And never a bad word for anyone.”
He didn’t have a good word wither.
But it’s too late to worry now.
That the smile was a grimace.
To hide the pain of being.
Disillusioned, in that cloud of unknowing,
Banality, which is our day to day existence.
Where Camelot rules the waves.
And Britons, all painted blue with cold,
Have sold themselves.
For bread they cannot eat.
And for wine that makes them sick.
The table of demons looks a merry feast.
But the boredom of a million years.
That is hardly the beginning.
And the smell of putrid food.
Serves not one bit,
To put them off.
Who flock there with their plates.
To fill and gorge themselves,
On the Devil’s leftovers.
And the faeces in the straw,
Smile sweetly at,
Sweet smelling bodies, bathed and scented,
With all the perfumes of Arabia.
Hiding sweating minds where the ,
Reek of garbage hangs heavily.
And the air is a thick miasma.
Tainted with the fumes of cheap wine.
Diluted with meths to give,
A better kick.
Because they have lost the power,
And the will, of self control,
Of free thinking,
And of love.