Watchers Of The Skies

Watchers Of The Skies

Someone, somewhere wants to know

What we’re getting up to

Our access, our codes and security

Our secrets and confidences

The bits and the bytes and the bleeps

The residue that gives us away

Tracking us through online DNA

To follow the digital trail

Of our electronic footprints

Through the blizzard of data

They’re tapping and taping

Wireless communications

Intercepting the signals

Listening to the chaff and the chatter

Clocking our clicks

Scraping our screens

And capturing our keystrokes

Deep-mining the datasets

Following our every move

Wherever we go

Our emails and calls

Our texts and our tweets

Interested in whatever we do

Whatever we’re looking at

Whichever the websites

And whoever we’re talking to

And who are these spooks and these spies

In their dubious agencies

And non-existent departments

Focusing their prism upon our lives

With their online surveillance?

What is the intelligence they seek?

The knowledge they need to keep us all safe?

The mandate they work to?

And who are the masters they answer to

So unaccountable and unreachable?

Are these the same people

Who seek to calm us with platitudes

And tell us that we have nothing to fear?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Hesitation

Hestitation

Some chaps find it hard to speak straight:

Their listeners just have to wait.

Their speech is a mess,

They start to digress,

Then it’s all stop, start and…. hesitate.

I don’t think it’s cos they’re stupid or dumb,

More like their minds have simply turned numb.

They become all unsure,

It’s so hard to endure,

When all they can come up with is ……“um”.

This problem can make them feel sick,

As they battle with their verbal tic.

They might come out with an …..“ah”,

And they don’t get very far,

I’m sorry – I’m not taking the mick!

Don’t mock – it could happen to you, man -

Bet you wouldn’t know what to do, man.

So don’t be uncertain,

Nor go for a burton,

After all – they say “to ‘er is human”.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Toast Rack

Toast Rack

Breakfast’s the laziest meal of the day,

A quite casual repast as a rule -
It’s not something so organised

That you need to watch the toast cool.

No - straight from the toaster and onto the plate,

Horizontal and any which way -

Whack on the butter and marmalade:

A sloppy approach to the start of the day.

The idea of it all in a line,

All vertical and serried in ranks,

It’s just too orderly for my taste,

We don’t need it on parade – no thanks!

Life’s too regimented as it is,

Without starting the day so formal,

So keep the toast-rack in the cupboard,

Chill out, and carry on just as normal!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 28th October 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 28^th October 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      A D-Town resident used the excuse of being pissed in the pub to break the town’s vow of silence of exactly who had got the girl from the paper-shop in the family way.  He was named as the bloke that goes in the café on the Brittox every Friday morning.  The man in the pub claimed that it was in the public interest for everyone to know.  The man in the café, meanwhile, denied any wrong-doing, and claimed that the girl had sworn she was 17 at the time of the “encounter”.  No aspects of the truth were harmed in the making of these statements.

2.    And people farting in the street have twice been warned to cease operations for 24 hours after sensitive equipment registered earth tremors measuring nearly 0.05% on the Richter scale.  The controversial technique of farting involves ejecting gas (and sometimes liquid) at high pressure through an anal sphincter, in an attempt to remove carbon and other deposits.  The Green lobby have condemned farting, and called for an end to the human contribution to the emission of greenhouse gases. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

An Angel On The Bus

An Angel On The Bus

We were getting worried about Grandma, a widow, who’d long been left all alone,

She was getting more and more forgetful, and seemed to be in a world of her own.

But she was a determined old lady - we didn’t want her being put out to grass.

Then one day a new vista opened up, when she got hold of her first bus pass.

She took to it like a duck to the water, and used it to voyage about all over.

Soon she was a frequent traveller, and became known as the “Off-peak Rover”.

Her confidence picked up, we noticed, and she became increasingly keen.

When we asked her to tell us about it, her features became calm and serene.

“You see,” she said, “I’ve had an encounter, about which it’s not seemly to boast,

But on the Ninety-Seven last week, I ran into one of the Heavenly Host.”

Now we thought this was pretty unlikely, and knew that Grandma was liable

To be somewhat over-impressed, by things she’d read in the Bible.

We asked her what she was talking about, what on earth was making her so happy,

But, suspecting that we doubted her word, she became all defensive and snappy.

She said she’d seen an Angel on the bus, a Close Encounter of the heavenly kind,

He was just sitting there all on his own, and she’d been so near, on the seat just behind.

She could have reached out and touched him; to his collar and the hairs on his neck,

And she trembled in her joy and elation, as she sat there, high up on the top deck.

His figure was picked out in silhouette, and about him there was a sunny aura,

At least that’s how it looked at the time, as she’d remarked to her friend Dora.

He had a special and ghostly presence, his aroma made her feel slightly faint,

But there was one further thing that clinched it, the proof that he was truly a saint.

She was a woman of faith and belief, she didn’t need to have her flames fanned,

But it was right there in front of her, truly this Angel sat at God’s right hand.

She knew that she would have missed this vision, if she’d been travelling by cycle,

But there it was clearly, on the label, in bold, curly letters – “Saint Michael”.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Beneath The Surface

Beneath The Surface

There! Near the reeds, on the far bank

A sinuous, slow movement

Languid and lazy

A suggestion of a dark shape, a shadow

Beneath the silvered surface

The shimmering pond-water

Implacable, cold, lily-covered

Under a slow-warming sun

Its midge-infested meniscus

Disturbed by the easy-rising minnows

Conceals a waiting presence

Snout, and focused steady eye

Belie the beating gills and waving tail

Needled fins and razored teeth

Lie in silent patient deadly wait

Inside a green and grassy cover

Until it is time to strike

To kill and eat

Before disappearing

Back into the depth

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Beef with Brown Ale & Horseradish Dumplings

Recipe for: BEEF with BROWN ALE & HORSERADISH DUMPLINGS

Ingredients:

·        3 tblsp plain flour

·        2 tsp English mustard powder

·        1 kg/ 2lb 4 oz beef shin or braising steak cut into large chunks

·        50g/ 2 oz lard

·        2 large onions, peeled & sliced

·        400g/ 14oz whole small Chantenay carrots

·        2 tsp Worcestershire sauce

·        1 tblsp mushroom ketchup

·        550ml bottle brown ale

·        2 large thyme sprigs

·        2 bay leaves

·        2 beef stock cubes

·        200ml water

·        For the dumplings:

o   175g / 6pz self-raising flour

o   75g 2 ½ oz suet

o   2 tblsp thyme leaves

o   4 tblsp strong horseradish sauce

Method:

1.      Heat oven to 160C fan

2.      Tip flour, mustard powder and seasoning into a large plastic bag

3.      Add the meat and shake well to cover each piece

4.      Put half the lard into a heavy, lidded casserole dish

5.      When hot brown the cubed meat in batches, setting aside in a bowl

6.      Heat remaining lard, then add onions and cook until lightly browned

7.      Return the meat and juices to the pan

8.      Add carrots, Worcester sauce, ketchup, ale, thyme, bay, stock cubes and water

9.      Gently bring to the boil, cover with lid and transfer to the oven

10.   Cook for 3 hours or until meat is very tender, stirring occasionally

11.   Turn oven up to 180C and quickly make the dumplings

12.   In a bowl mix flour, suet and thyme

13.   Season well and add the horseradish

14.   Add some water a few tblsp at a time, mixing until dough comes together and doesn’t stick to the bowl

15.   Divide dough into 12 and roll with your fingers into small balls

16.   Remove lid from casserole, put dumplings on top and return to the oven (uncovered) for 25 minutes until dumplings are cooked and golden

What else you need to know:

1.      Serve with mashed potato &green vegetables, or champ

One-Way Ticket

One-Way Ticket (to Mars)

I was looking for a new challenge:

Something to banish senility’s fears,

When I spotted the advertisement,

A good way to spend my retirement years.

It said they were looking for astronauts,

To head on out into deep space,

So I signed myself up for the training,

And made my entry into the space race.

They had a great vision for mankind:

It was a mission to colonise Mars!

We’d be blasting off from the Earth,

And journeying towards the stars.

Yes, we were setting off for the Red Planet,

To establish a colony, or a base-camp,

Like the pioneers in the days of old,

I felt like Columbus as I mounted the ramp.

The blast-off was truly spectacular,

As our rocket rose towards the night sky,

And Mission Control raised a big cheer,

As they sadly waved us good-bye.

Then we pulled out of Earth’s gravity,

And, as we carefully avoided The Moon,

It hadn’t yet even occurred to me,

That I’d become a hostage to fortune.

You see, when a man settles down for a while,

And there’s no alcohol on board, no drinking,

His thoughts turn to existential matters,

And that’s when I got round to some thinking.

If we’ve dropped all of our boosters,

And we’re voyaging in this tin can,

How are we going to get back from Mars?

Won’t we be stuck there, to a man?

I voiced my concerns to the captain,

And mentioned it to the rest of the crew,

But they all just fell about in their laughter,

And said that they thought that I knew!

It turns out that this is a one-way journey!

I’ve been issued with a single ticket!

There’s no possible way to return -

Well – I mean – that’s simply not cricket!

   

I knew that it would take a long time,

If mankind was to make his mark,

But I didn’t realise just how final,

That day when I’d turned up to embark.

We’re to be the first of our species,

To land on Mars – that is our fate,

And if we survive our arrival,

Our next job will be to pro-create!

Now I’ve had a look round at the rest of the crew,

And there’s none I’d want go out with on a date,

So it could be a long, lonely existence,

If I’m the only one not taking a mate.

There’s one girl who’s been looking at me,

And paying me lots of attention,

I think I know what’s on her agenda,

I think I can spot her intention!

So here I am, trapped in this spaceship,

With only the Sun’s gravity to tow it,

Heading off to a fate worse than death –

It’s space, Jim, but not as we know it.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Mission

Mission

We left upon a high tide

Of love and hope and enthusiasm

That pushed us gently off from home

Out into the starry night

To travel upon waves of faith

And the best of our technology

We embarked upon the journey

In our silvered ship of dreams

Carrying deep within the belly of its hold

Supplies and building blocks of life

Essentials for the colony

And a fragile early settlement

And now we can only wait

And voyage on regardless

Tracking our co-ordinates

On our pre-determined trajectory

A long-distance one-way ticket

Through cold and airless space

There will be no return

No coming back across the void

From this long-term venture

To a dry and dusty planet

With its darker horizon

Orbiting further from our Sun

But we may survive for long enough

To thrive and procreate the species

To build a tenuous foothold

Upon the rocky surface

Where we can stand defiant

And watch the Earth rise once again

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Socks Without Partners

Socks Without Partners

I’ll tell you a story of heart-ache and loss,

With a happy ending that’s a heartener,

Of a garment that was lost in the washing,

The tale of a sock without a partner.

Tootsie, for that was the sock’s name,

Suddenly found herself lonely and lonesome,

Carried off in the basket with the rest,

But realised she was all on her own-some.

They’d gone, as usual, in the washer together,

Then her other half seemed not to be there.

How had they managed to drift apart,

When they’d always been part of a pair?

She’d found herself in with some dirty types;

Their filthy behaviour caused her to wince,

And she found herself turned inside out,

When she finally came out of the rinse.

There’d been too much of a crowd in the basket,

With bras and knickers she’d been forced to mingle,

And it was only as she hung on the line,

That she realised that she was now single.

There was no-one to meet her or match her,

She started to rue, her anxiety grew,

She knew she was useless on her own,

There was no purpose unless there were two.

Then a kindly old night-shirt took pity,

When he saw that Tootsie was crying.

He made a suggestion to the young sock:

There was a way out, something worth trying.

“There’s a special support group,” he told her,

“Where singles can meet with a view to dating:

Goes by the name of Socks Without Partners,

Where the lucky ones may end up by mating.”

“But I’m too old to find anyone now,

With my ticking biological clock,

No-one will want some-one as washed-up as me,”

Thus wailed the little pink and white sock.

“They’ll see that I’m neither modern nor new,

My stitching’s all bobbled and sunken,

My colour has faded, my pattern’s all shaded,

And my elastic’s completely shrunken.”

  

The night-shirt replied, “it’s time that you tried,

By putting forward your very best foot.

And, of course, you’ll need to be on your toes,

If you want to get yourself out of this rut!”

“They don’t hang about in these places, you know,

If it’s a partner you’re after catching;

You only get two minutes for chatting,

It’s a new thing they call speed-matching.”

So Tootsie was thrown in the airing cupboard,

With no-one to love her, nobody to care,

When, just for a moment, somewhere in the pile,

Was that a flash of pink she could see there?

The colour wasn’t perfect it seemed,

The patterns on them differed some ways,

But they found that they had plenty in common,

To team up together for a few days.

The other old sock had lost his partner too,

And had been left long in this cupboard’s heat,

But they decided they could walk out together,

And, as a new partnership, they could meet.

So the moral of this story’s quite clear:

If you’ve been abandoned, don’t cry and moan -

There’s always some-one out there that’s for you,

Never give up if you’re left on your own.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 21st October 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 21^st October 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      In the wake of the amazing, and frankly incomprehensible, news that Kleenex are to withdraw their “man-size” tissues on the grounds that such a label is sexist, the shock waves have finally reached The Vize.  All manholes in the borough are to be replaced with personholes, records by Manfred Mann will be re-recorded as Personfred Person, and supermarkets will replace their mandarin oranges with persondarin oranges.  The local theatre will be putting on a production of G.B. Shaw’s “Person And Superperson”.  No snowflakes were hurt in the making of this new world order.

2.    Meanwhile a TrowVegas chip shop has finally admitted responsibility for battering a sausage, after nearly two weeks of previous denials.  CCTV footage conclusively proved that a D-Town man was seen entering the fish emporium, whilst looking for something to eat, but was not seen leaving with anything substantial under his arm, and the battered sausage could not be conclusively traced to his order.  The shop had claimed at first that  he had only ordered chips, but later admitted that a sausage may have been involved.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

At The End Of The Pier

At The End Of The Pier

The gaps between the weathered planks underfoot

Left tantalising glimpses of the drop

Down to the restless sea boiling beneath

The waves slapping hard against the piles

Barnacled and seaweed-strewn

A watery world, above which we were held aloft

On the bracing breezy boardwalk

Heads down into the wind

Eyes hooded against the slanting light

Along the corroded iron-girdered structure

A jaunty finger jutting out from land

Edged around by rusting railings

Their corroded layers of leaded paint

Flaking in the sea-salt onslaught

Of many stormy seas

And elemental winters

The pier’s attractions sheltered in the middle

Clustered tight together in serried rows

Harbouring sweet and sickly smells

Of sugared rock, ice-cream and candy-floss

What-the-butler-never-saw machines

And pulsating penny arcades

That held the promise of a prize

The seafood stalls set out their wares

Of cockles and crab-sticks

Pinky prawns and pin-hunted winkles

And shops that touted windmills

Flags and buckets and spades

Kiss-Me-Slowly cowboy hats

And revolving wire stands

Of saucy seaside postcards

Picturing pot-bellied punters

That had lost their little Willie

Then beyond the chevroned deckchairs

The booths and bandstand of a bygone era

Faded relics of Edwardian grandeur

Out towards the final destination

And an end of walking

The promenade’s pointing prow

With but a single heavy telescope

That cost a silver sixpence

To let the gormless gaze out into the bay

Before bowing to the inevitable

And setting out upon the journey back

That could never be as thrilling

As that first stroll out into the sea

And towards a setting sun

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Fielding An Illegible Player

Fielding An Illegible Player

I thought at first it must be a slip of the tongue

A simple error that anyone could make

But as the marmalade congealed upon my toast

I heard him explain some more about it

And I better understood what it was that he was saying

When he announced that my local club

Would be punished with a points deduction

A reprimand and a swingeing fine

It appeared the team had broken the rules

And fielded what he said was an illegible player

Which is a rather different thing

And as the sports reporter’s voice carried on

The breakfast table faded before me

And I was transported back to the touchline

From where I’d watched on Saturday last

And where I’d sought in vain to spot the winger

His whereabouts were uncertain, if not obscure

I just couldn’t make him out at all

A pass went out to him, to run down the wing

In an attempt, perhaps, to defeat the off-side trap

But he just wasn’t there, and the ball ran into touch

His position being indecipherable

His off-the-ball movement unreadable

He was totally anonymous in the game

Occupying a lacuna of space out on the right

An unseen presence, missing in action

His role in the side no more than a mystery

The meaning something I couldn’t even guess

The room swam sharply back into focus

With the shelf and the radio all present

The toast still soft and buttery in my hand

My mug of tea gone cold and un-drunk

And the announcer now on a different story

Having moved on from the offence and investigation

To the scores elsewhere in the league

I’m still not sure that I’d heard him quite right

But upon more sober reflection

I think he’d used the right word after all

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Apple, Oat & Banana Loaf

Recipe for: APPLE, OAT & BANANA LOAF

Ingredients:

·        3 large eggs, lightly beaten

·        200g olive oil

·        200g natural yoghurt

·        50g maple syrup

·        2 ripe bananas, peeled & mashed

·        1 red apple, grated

·        1 small carrot, peeled & grated

·        250g wholemeal spelt flour

·        3 tsp baking powder

·        ½ tsp salt

·        50g quick-cook porridge oats

·        75g soft brown sugar

·        ½ tsp grated nutmeg

·        ½ tsp ground cinnamon

·        100g raisins or sultanas

·        50g mixed seeds

·        50g chopped walnuts

Method:

1.      Heat oven to 190C/ fan 180C/ 375F/ gas 5

2.      Grease two one-litre loaf tins & line with greaseproof paper

3.      In a bowl, whisk eggs into olive oil

4.      Whisk in the yoghurt, maple syrup, banana, apple and carrot

5.      In another large bowl sift in the flour, baking powder & salt

6.      Add the oats, sugar, spices, raisins, seeds & nuts

7.      Fold in all the stuff from the wet bowl

8.      Spoon mixture into the tins so that they are two-thirds full

9.      Smooth the tops & scatter with extra seeds

10.   Bake for 45-50 minutes until golden, and a skewer comes out clean

11.   Leave in tins to cool for 5 minutes, then remove & transfer to wire rack

12.   (optionally) when cool, brush with a little extra maple syrup

What else you need to know:

1.      Best eaten within two days

Hanging On

Hanging On

The frustration of not being able to get through, to send & receive clearly, on demand, but to be at the mercy of technology, time & cyberspace.

I thought it was meant to be progress?

This stuff they call technology?

My smart-phone’s turned into a dumb-phone,

And 4G’sjust  a piece of kidology.

I don’t want to download, I don’t want to upload,

I don’t want to jabber in code:

I just want to talk to the bloke who lives down the road.

This lack of signal’s a pain, I’m giving myself wrist-sprain

I’m going insane, whilst trying to gain

The position to “send” once again

I’d be in my element, I’d become a real gent

If this text could be sent

But instead I’m reduced to railing

Cos the damned thing keeps failing

The designer of this should be quailing

If I got near him he’d be wailing

I’d want the bugger jailing

I get really riled, each time when I’ve dialled

One of the numbers I’ve filed

When it says it’s unknown, then it fails with a groan

And I can’t find a dial-tone, or enough bars on the phone

I’ll admit that I’ve cried, whenever I’ve tried

To follow the User Guide, then I get “Access Denied”

I’ve even tried bending

To improve the chances of sending

It’s my money I’m spending

But the damned things always offending

My hair I’m tearing and rending

The problems are never-ending

And my messages and calls are tending

To a status of “pending”

Why can’t I get through? 

What am I supposed to do?

I think I should sue!

I’m clearly stating, that this situation I’m hating

I’m fed up of waiting, the problem’s never-abating

It shouldn’t fail, it’s not the Holy Grail!

Not on this scale, it’s beyond the pale

So I think I’ll give up and go back to email

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Tasting Notes

Tasting Notes

The world is full of wonderful wine,

So many that it’s very hard to choose.

But you’re supposed to be particular,

Not just knock it back like booze.

So I was dragged along to a wine tasting,

Then told to wait patiently and sit,

But the biggest shock I got that night,

Was being told not to swallow, but to spit!

Apparently, you can’t just rush in:

You’re supposed to take your time, and savour it.

If you go and drink it too quickly,

You’ll not discover your favourite.

There was a method and a protocol,

I soon learnt, that had to be observed,

Although I’d have liked to just get on with it,

From quaffing too quickly I had to be deterred.

Firstly they all gazed upon its colour,

Finding words to describe its “shades” and its “tints”,

So I swallowed a few mouthfuls,

And listened to them talking of “hints”.

Then there was some swirling around in the glass,

To develop the “bouquet” and the “aroma”:

But I decided to just finish my glass,

Before I slept, or fell into a coma.

I thought after that we’d get on with it,

But they started mentioning the “nose”,

So I started sipping a bit more of it -

What they were waiting for, God Alone knows.

Then, finally, they got on to the drinking,

And to their palates (that means the taste),

But I was already way ahead of them,

I drank a bit more, no time to waste.

They started swirling it all round their mouths,

And rolling their eyes as they savoured,

And sucking in air, and pinching their cheeks,

Was another method they favoured.

Then they spit it all out in front of me!

And started describing it as “amusing”.

It was “intense”, some called it “immense”,

But I just found their chatter confusing.

  

Now I can’t see the point of spitting it out,

Once you’ve got the stuff in your gob,

So I carried right on swallowing,

Trying my best not to look like a yob.

They were on about it being “floral”,

It was “delicate” I must understand,

And when they said it was “well-balanced”,

By this time, I had a glass in each hand.

I couldn’t frown, as I let it slip down -

They said it was “full-bodied” and “smooth” -

But by now I was cursed, with a great raging thirst,

And my drinking was looking uncouth.

The “complex notes” passed by their throats,

And there were “distinctive undertones”,

But this “fragrant” medium, had turned into tedium,

As I threw back the Cotes de Rhone.

At lasht they were talking of the “finish”,

Of how the “fragrant notes” really shung.

They were lying, to call it shatisfying,

The tashte hung around on my teeth & my tongue.

To be perfectly honesht, I’d had enough,

My legsh felt shaky; I went t’wards the door,

Everything looked all kind of doubled;

I needed no more, as slowly I shlid to the floor.

Sho take the moral of thish shtory;

And lishen to me when I try hard to shpeak:

Don’t drink too fasht, try and make it lasht,

And – shorry – I’ve to dash for a leak!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

A Different Country

A Different Country

Things were different way back then

We accepted different things

How our heroes sailed before the mast

And behaved the way they did

Because no-one knew to stop them

But today we’re ready to talk about the past

Seeds sown so many years ago

Lain dormant, suddenly awaking

Tear-watered, flourish fast

And grow into monstrous shapes

Cast long shadows on the guilty

And leave the public full aghast

A long, long shameful silence

Brooding on bottled-up emotions

And how history’s since been cast

Now emerging into light of day

And moved to naming famous names

How could they expect such lies to last?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 14th October 2018

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 14^th October 2018

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:

1.      Nearly seven people lined the streets of D-Town on Friday to watch the latest celebrity wedding procession.  The girl from the third checkout at Morrisons married the son of the bloke who works at the chip shop in the Market Place.  Neither is in line to inherit any money, or likely to do anything noticeable with their lives, but – hey – a wedding is a wedding, right?

2.    And art history may have been made at a shop in the Brittox in the week, when a woman bought a second-hand painting in a charity shop.  Having paid £3 for the artwork (including tax) the woman was putting it into her wheeled shopping trolley when her hand slipped and she dropped the item on the floor.  The frame split and the glass cracked, thus appearing to destroy the value of painting.  However, a passing art critic/ commentator remarked that this misfortune may have actually increased its value.  Or not.  Who knows?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018

Killer In The Village

Killer In The Village

There’s a killer in our village

And he’s not been brought to justice

He’s out there right now

Walking round a free man

Because no-one knows

About his guilty secret

There’s a killer in our village

He’s just an ordinary guy

With a wife and children

Worrying about his credit card

And his hefty mortgage

Perhaps the same as you and I

There’s a killer in our village

And everybody knows his name

They see him down the pub

And he plays on all the local teams

They’ve been known to pat him on the back

When he makes a winning score

There’s a killer in our village

Who knows how to hit a target

He’s top gun at computer games

With hand/ eye co-ordination

Second-to-none, rated excellent

For a special military job

There’s a killer in our village

Yet no-one lives in any fear

He drives over to the airbase

And he works his every shift

Then he passes through security

And descends in to his bunker

There’s a killer in our village

But no-one’s after him

He peers into his monitor

Yet he’s never in any danger

A pilot who always stays at home

And flies the drones in Afghanistan

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2018