Boys Will Be Boys

Boys Will Be Boys (The Spirit of Adventure)

Long, lazy, summer-time, school holidays,

Feeling frowsy in the long dry grass, so bored.

Waiting, languidly, for things to happen:

The itch for excitement that cannot be ignored.

It’s time for adventure, or some trouble:

Thrills don’t just come, so need to be sought out.

They all wanted to be a part of it,

None of them by cowardice caught out.

Who’s leading, who’s following, who’s daring?

Who’s going to be involved quite fully?

Who’s pushing who to make the first move?

Who’s the scaredy-cat, and who’s the bully?

It’s become a matter of honour to go,

No-one wants to appear the baby child,

Egging each other onwards to the place,

Three boys, scared to hold back, running wild.

The house stands deserted and forlorn,

Behind its barrier of tangled wire,

Its broken windows like empty sockets,

Tumble-down, decrepit and so dire.

It’s a simple target to be raided,

Undergrowth to keep them quite hidden,

Forcing down the old, broken back door,

Past where it says “Entry Is Forbidden”.

Plaster has fallen away from dirty walls,

Damp, mouldy, a smell that’s musty,

Broken floor-boards, glass everywhere,

Mouse-droppings, filthy and dusty.

Here was once the lounge, now long deserted,

A kitchen with many pipes hanging out.

They don’t think about the people who lived here,

Too busy exploring, and running about.

Here is a place with possibilities,

A secret space for a ghoulish game.

No limit to a child’s imagination,

Or the ideas that are in the frame.

A new head-quarters for their gang,

A pirate’s cave, or hidden treasure,

A robber’s den, a secret hideaway,

To torture their enemies at leisure.

But what if someone already comes here?

Beggars, or thieves or a filthy tramp?

How can it be made safe and secure?

How to establish their own camp?

Rooms up above must be inspected,

In case someone else is hiding there.

Their voices fall into edgy silence,

Gathering below the bottom stair.

The youngest one is pushed up to the front,

Nervous and trembling, fearing the worst,

The older ones standing right behind him,

Bullying, taunting, making him go first.

He wants to decline this stupid challenge,

His fear is building, and he feels like crying,

But the others will not let him stop now:

He cannot get away – no sense in even trying.

Then, too soon, it’s spinning out of control,

They threaten him with torture, calling names.

Challenging him, shoving him forward,

It’s gone beyond their normal childish games.

The mood has turned quite nasty,

And the laughter has faded away.

They prod him and push him upwards,

They force him – they will have their way.

He bites his lip, and swallows hard.

Though he is trembling and shaking,

He starts to mount the broken risers,

Fearing the dangerous steps he’s taking.

Near the top, his panic rises,

But he never hears the creaking sound,

As he falls through the crumbling structure,

Screaming, arms flapping all around.

A crashing noise and then the silence,

The dust and debris soon stop falling,

The older boys stand stunned, amazed,

Then for their friend start yelling, calling.

He does not answer, lying there quite still.

They know the situation’s far from good:

They run away in a frantic panic,

Leaving the body in its pool of blood.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Night Terrors

Night Terrors

Floating through the numbness of drifting dreams,

Softly billowing, falling and rising,

Seeking, searching, following a distant figure,

Reaching out towards the tantalising.

Then the crack of sound which startles,

The snap of sudden, startled waking,

Bolt upright in the tangle of sheets,

Listening hard, to a silence that’s breaking.

Heavy, deep, suffocating blackness,

Pierced by the thinnest slice of moonlight,

Through a curtain-crack not closed,

Creating shadowy shapes within the night.

Thick, breathing stillness,

Then a creak upon the stair.

A catch of breath -

Is there somebody there?

The house settling, moaning and groaning,

A catalogue of clicks and ticks.

Sounds from out of the silence,

Or is it the mind just playing tricks?

And, from outside, (the night is barely quiet now) -

The scratchings and callings and shufflings,

Of badgers and mice,

Of owls and foxes,

Their scrapings and diggings and snufflings.

The swishing of wind as it blows through the trees,

And the tapping of twigs against the pane,

A gentle pittering and pattering,

That might be just the winter rain.

But what was that?

Yet stranger sounds abound.

Perhaps those unwelcome creatures, the rats.

Wandering, investigating, nosing around,

Stoats, weasels, bats or meandering cats.

They are out there, safe where they belong,

In the kingdoms they inhabit,

But then, from somewhere out the distance,

The searing scream of captured rabbit.

And, inside now, fear and tension rising.

Blood pumping,

Heart thumping,

Ears straining,

Mind working overtime,

And a sense of terror gaining.

Was that a subtle movement?

Something just over there?

Is something hidden in the shadows?

Is there really somebody there?

Or has a primal imagination,

Seeking to penetrate the gloom,

Created something super-natural,

Standing there across the darkened room?

So scared, forgetting how to breathe,

Unable to swallow, starting to shiver,

Limbs stiff, skin chilled, eyes out on stalks,

Fingers kneading bed-clothes, all a-quiver.

Straining hard to distinguish every sound,

Listening, thinking, hoping, guessing,

An eerie quiet now descending,

Perhaps portending something more distressing?

Primitive and primordial fear,

That traces roots from inside the womb.

Terrors of torment and lingering death,

Staring at the black inside of one’s tomb.

Dying alone – the dark, deepest dread

That everyone cradles inside.

Fear of the dying, more than the dead,

The unspoken horror we all seek to hide.

Was that a door slamming, a bang or a bump?

A noise unfamiliar, or unknown?

Or was the whole thing inside of my head,

Created by demons all of my own?

There’ll be no sleep further tonight:

Ghouls and ghosts may wander at will.

Perhaps there’s nobody there after all,

But the mind won’t believe that, cannot be still.

Copytight Andy Fawthrop 2019

Bonfire

Bonfire                                              

Cool, calm, short winter day,

Wood, waste, weeds on the fire,

Cleaning up garden detritus,

Piling them on the pyre.

Flames flicking, licking the leaves,

Smouldering, spluttering, smoking,

Throwing out gases and fumes,

Wheezing, coughing and choking.

Eyes watering and damp,

Smoke and steam in the air,

Getting too near the fierce heat,

Singeing eyebrows and hair.

Leaves and branches catching,

Wood crackling, bark cracking,

Twigs breaking, snapping,

Greying and blacking.

Consumed by the inferno,

Noises quite troubling.

Sap escaping and hissing,

Oozing, boiling and bubbling.

Feeding the fire, adding the fuel,

Working through the waiting stash.

Destroying everything fed to it,

Reducing all to glimmering ash.

What’s rotten, what’s rubbish,

Infestations of grubs and of bugs,

Contagions of parasites,

Creepy-crawlies and slugs.

Logs gently hunkering down,

As they slowly dismember.

Fire blazing, burning and charring,

Settling to black and red ember.

Now a rising smoke signal,

Showing the task as complete,

Nature’s waste products,

Disappearing in that searing heat.

Cleansing, cleaning, clearing,

Consuming, eating with ease,

Twisting, turning and burning,

Killing off the rot and disease.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Roundway Hill

Roundway Hill

Sitting at last, gathering breath,

From the hard climb up the track,

Staring across the ancient landscape,

Allowing myself at last to look back

Towards the far village steeple,

Rising through late morning haze,

Shimmering in the distance,

Attracting my sun-dazzled gaze.

Calves and feet gently aching,

Boots well covered in fine dust,

Kicked up by my plodding progress

Through the chalk’s crumbling crust.

Orchids peer shyly through the long grass

Of this upland meadow where calmly I wait,

Tiny, quick flashes of colour,

Right down the track to the gate.

Butterflies dance in gaudy profusion,

Fluttering round, ignoring the heat,

And a fox flees into the wood,

Less than fifty yards from my seat.

Far below me, down in the cornfield,

Seeming like dots, are boxing hares,

Standing, running, darting and feinting,

Pre-occupied with Spring-mating cares.

Recovered, exhaling slowly,

Back on my feet, I continue the climb,

The steady tramp, tramp of the boots,

Marking out the rhythm of time.

Head gently clearing, eyes lifting,

Up to the summit of the long hill,

Driving my aching legs forward,

With the sheer force of my will.

No thought for the tension and stress,

That can clutter my mind these days:

Exhaustion drives it all out,

And calms my soul in so many ways.

Daily detoxification

Can be found on this high ground,

And the tiredness of an aching body,

Works like a drug, leaving me sound.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 25th August 2019

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 25^th August 2019

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

1.      The mayor of The Vize has cancelled a formal visit to Trowvegas tomorrow after the jumped-up pompous assholes in the Council there refused to sell the village of Hilperton to us.  The sheer cheek and short-sightedness of the refusal also forced the imposition of sanctions, including the raising of the bus-fare by 10p return.

2.      And in a shock development, citizens of D-Town suddenly realised that this week-end is a Bank Holiday, and (shock of shocks in the Summer) that the sun is shining.  Who knew?  Revellers will be forced to enjoy themselves, whether they like it or not, by being given free street entertainment, being  allowed to go into a wide selection of pubs and bars until nearly mid-night, and by being allowed not to go work until Tuesday.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Old Age Non-Pensioner

Old-Age Non-Pensioner (or Growing Old Disgracefully)

I’ve just reached a certain age now,

But I have to tell you the truth:

As you can all plainly see before you,

I’m still in the first flush of my youth.

For age affects us all in different ways,

There’s no use in trying to hide:

It’s time to get out & declare it:

I’ve become a member of Grey Pride!

I may have to go for a medical,

And lay on the doctor’s bed all prostrate.

I’ll hear the snap of the marigolds,

When he’s about to inspect my prostate.

There’ll blood & urine samples to give:

It’s really not very nice.

I’ll be told “Stop smoking, and drink less,

And take more exercise”.

For I’ve got to keep healthy,

To avoid increasing debility.

Keep my mind & body active,

And ward off approaching senility.

I’ll get increasingly forgetful,

As I become a bit of a part-timer.

I’ll try to keep mentally agile,

And avoid contracting Alzheimers.

There’ll be hardened arteries to cope with,

As I approach age fifty seven,

But to help me at home these days,

I’ve got a Stannah stairlift to heaven.

I can look forward deafness,

And eye-sight that grows ever dimmer,

But at least I won’t need a road test

To go for a spin with my Zimmer.

With spreading waist, dodgy knees & joints,

The outlook’s increasingly “grey”,

And every day I’ve noticed,

That my toe-nails seem further away.

I’ve become follically challenged:

At least that’s what they say that it’s called,

But when I was that much younger,

They just used to say you were bald.

As more of my body parts stop working,

And my memory I’m starting to doubt,

I’m falling prey to more illnesses:

The wheezing, the coughing – and, of course, gout.

  

But I’m told that I’m a silver surfer.

My computer has got lots of ROM,

And now I can get a subscription

On a site called Confused.com.

And there are some compensations,

Which come as quite a relief,

For whatever else I might be losing,

You know I’ve still got my own teeth.

So I’m going to grow older disgracefully,

And go out without my glasses.

I’ll probably get lost in the High Street,

And start chasing the older lasses.

But now I guess it’s off to Help The Aged,

To seek some help & dedication.

So I’ll see you all sometime later:

It’s time to take my medication.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Dyin' To Try It

Dyin’ to Try It (or Tryin’ to Diet)

A Dieter’s Resolution is a terrible thing,

But losing some weight is a must.

My clothes no longer fit me,

And I’ve started to develop a bust.

Diets always begin on a Monday,

But my belt has tightened a notch.

These trousers are now killing me:

They’re way too tight in the crotch.

I’m now counting calories the day long,

Went to Weight Watchers last night.

But the lack of nourishment is taxing:

I’m dying to just have a bite.

I’ve tried all types of diet it’s true:

The F-Plan, the Atkins, the Hay,

But I’ve still got a fat belly,

And that’s why you’ll hear me say:

Chorus - Lord knows I’m tryin’ to diet:

Please don’t let me be obese.

But I’m still dyin’ to try it,

So just hand over the cheese.

I’ve tried taking pills & supplements,

But they just left me feeling weak.

I even tried the old whiskey diet,

And I lost three days just last week.

But the weight it just won’t drop away,

And I can feel the strain on my heart.

And when I tried the Cabbage diet,

Well – it just forced me to fart.

My thickening waist-line is a real problem,

One that I don’t know how I’m to beat.

I get more lonely & hungry,

And then I just want more to eat.

I start to have dreams & then visions,

As plates of food pass in front of my eyes.

Pastries & pasties & cakes of all sorts,

And fish & chips, and savoury pies.

Chorus –

Where are the cream-cakes, the puddings & buns,

The chocolate, the gravy & foods of great cheer?

The sauces, the tarts, and the roast pork?

I’d give anything for a few pints of beer.

The images swim in front of my eyes,

And my fingers tremble & fumble.

I’ve a case of terrible cravings,

And my stomach has started to rumble.

So have pity on me, all of you there,

To see me cry, to see me unmanned.

If this goes on any longer,

I’ll be trying a gastric band.

And as you feel your arteries hardening,

And tuck into your meals tonight;

Think of me in dieting agony,

And say with me in my plight:

Chorus –

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Organic Panic

Organic panic (or why mud can be good)

Each time I go off to the market in town,

There’s something I see,

Which brings to my face a terrible frown.

It annoys me and it’s getting me down.

I feel they’re treating me like I’m a clown.

It’s when I see the label organic,

That I enter a mood near to panic,

And people nearby think that I’m manic.

It’s when I read the back of the label,

That it alarms me.

For in among all the country fable,

Is all the truth that’s not on the table.

This really ought to bug and annoy you,

That even in summer, and this is not new,

Green beans are being flown in from Peru.

What madness is this that they are doing?

To fool us all badly.

It’s causing pollution we’ll be ruing,

On this planet that’s now started stewing.

There’s trouble ahead that we’re brewing.

We can’t go on madly.

We’re killing seasonality and taste,

Raising food in too much hurry & haste,

Leaving behind us trails of carbon waste.

I don’t want hormones or drugs in my meat:

It’s not natural.

Nor genetically modified wheat,

But nor do I want a planet that’s beat,

Or a climate that will soon over-heat.

But we’re exhausting what’s left of the land,

And it’s time that we took it back in to hand,

Before the time comes that it’s panned.

The supermarkets must share in the blame,

With their approach.

They are taking us for fools in this game,

And their excuses are becoming more lame.

They ought to be reddening in their shame,

For covering up all of these airmiles,

And all of their plastic packaging guiles.

I’m putting their marketing in the frame,

Cos knobbly veggies taste just the same.

They don’t need to be perfect & straight,

To be edible.

Nor do they need to have a sell-by date.

We can work it out at our own rate,

Whether it’s best to eat now, or to wait.

But I’d certainly object if I could,

That farmers’ markets shouldn’t try to be good,

And charge more for carrots covered in mud.

  

This whole thing’s become tattered and frayed,

At the edges.

Words like “free-range” and “pure” have become greyed,

And nobody’s sure any more what’s Fairtrade,

Or who’s making the profits or being paid.

There’s something confusing about food,

Where real meanings have become skewed,

And the labels try to shape our attitude.

Wasn’t all food once “organic” and real?

Or am I naïve?

What we want back right now is the real deal,

With veggies that you can fondle & feel.

Let’s get rid of the packages and labels,

Get the stuff all laid out on the tables,

And banish this marketing-house Babel.

So let’s have dirty spuds and bent parsnips,

And let us get back to having real chips.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

That Old Toothless Dog

That Old Toothless Dog (or the thin end of the wedge).

Here we are again, as you lie on the floor,

At the side of my chair, your lead all slack.

No wonder, by the look of you,

We were asked to sit at the back.

I felt it was the least that we could do,

Because you’re not too strong in the knees.

For they didn’t want the other pets put out,

Nor frightened, nor infected with fleas.

Your coat’s all matted & tangled,

And I didn’t feel that I could quibble.

For it’s quite obvious wherever we sit,

There’s going to be lots of your dribble.

Cos now you’re old, and you’re toothless,

You’re half-deaf and you’re half-blind,

All of which I can put up with:

It’s the incontinence that I mind.

It’s hard to list all of your ailments,

It’s hard to know just where to start,

But I guess your principal problem

Is quite how often you fart.

You get in the way wherever you flop down,

You cost us a fortune in dog food.

You can’t seem to leave anything alone,

And when we get home, we find everything chewed.

You’re becoming increasingly forgetful.

You just look puzzled, you old wretch.

Cos you stop half way to the stick:

You’ve forgotten what you were going to fetch.

You’ve become a useless guard-dog:

The burglars can’t believe their luck.

Your toothless jaws can no longer bite them,

Only give them a quite nasty suck.

You don’t bark in time to warn us,

They’re upon us all too soon.

And then when there’s no danger

You spend hours howling at the moon.

You’ve become an economic burden,

And now that you’re not very well,

You’re neither use nor ornament.

And on top of all that, you smell.

So here we are for your last journey,

The end of the road for you as a pet.

The life-force of you will soon be ended,

By that needle in the hands of the vet.

So don’t you look up at me like that,

With those big, brown, cloudy but trusting eyes.

I’m sure you can see into my purpose,

That this visit’s one way can’t be disguised.

You’ve grown up with me & the children,

You’ve always been faithful & loyal.

You’ve put in your years of good service,

And to us you’ve been a friend quite royal.

You’ve become part of the family,

As if you were related by blood.

We couldn’t take on a new puppy now:

I just don’t think that we could.

Dammit, everybody loves you,

Though you’re a toothless old hound.

You’re just a part of the furniture.

I think that it’s time we turned round.

Let’s leave this deathly waiting room,

Let’s walk right out calm & steady.

You don’t need to be pushed along,

You can do this when you’re good & ready

For now that it’s come right down to it,

I find that I can’t just erase yer.

We’d be doing it to people next,

And that’s the road to euthanasia!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

A Thief In The Night

A Thief In The Night

Awoken by a bump in the night,

A noise I wish could have resisted.

I didn’t want to investigate,

But the wife – she’d insisted.

So, armed with what first came to my hand,

I crept quietly down the stair,

Clutching a pair of her curling tongs,

To discover who might be there.

There was a light on in the kitchen -

So - there was the criminal joker!

I shouted out - just to warn him:

“Hey! I’m armed with a big poker!”

I heard a noise, so I thought perhaps he’d gone,

And dashed bravely in, to chase off the thief,

But the sight that met my eyes,

Was one I could hardly believe.

The youth, he was just sitting there,

In the chair, as calm as can be,

Helping himself to some cornflakes,

With cold milk, as far as I could see.

He didn’t look so threatening,

Slumped at the table, almost dejected,

He didn’t have the traditional look,

Of the cat-burglar I’d expected.

He wasn’t armed and dangerous,

And there was no sign of a mask,

He didn’t wear a long stripey jumper,

No bag marked “swag” to help in his task.

He wasn’t alarmed to see me,

In fact, he didn’t even frown,

But said: “Calm yourself, Grandad! -

And put those curling-tongs down!”

I said: “A man’s home is his castle –

About that, you need to be clear,

You shouldn’t be eating my cornflakes,

In fact, you shouldn’t even be here!”

He said that as I was here now,

He knew how I must feel.

He didn’t have the heart to burgle,

And from me he’d better not steal.

House-breaking’s not all it’s cracked up to be,

The risks hardly make it worth-while,

Biting dogs and alarm systems

Were really cramping his style.

By the time I’d heard his story,

I could see things from his side,

And felt so very sorry for him,

Well, I very nearly cried.

  

I saw him out through the door,

Once he’d had a good rest,

I hoped he’d do well in the future,

And then I wished him all the best.

I locked the door behind him,

Reflecting on what we’d both said,

And knowing that crime doesn’t pay,

Made my way, happily, back to bed.

It was next morning that I discovered,

My wallet and keys he’d lifted,

He’d been back again in the night,

And all my valuables shifted.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

The Home Front

The Home Front

Every dreary day seems just the same,

Getting through the housework or the shopping,

Passing time and anxious waiting,

The clock forever ticking, never stopping.

Answering the children’s questions,

About their father who’s far away,

Counting down the lonely hours,

Until the hoped-for home-coming day.

He could be on patrol this very minute,

Through the muddy landscape, on the tramp,

Fearful of what might happen next,

Before he can make the safety of camp.

Heavy cannons screaming overhead,

Dealing with the cold, the mud and little sun,

Hoping not to be caught in a fire-fight,

Trying to stay alive till it’s over and done.

Back at home, the picture’s different,

Although it’s no less of a strain.

The weather’s cold and always dreary,

There’s fog and ice and driving rain.

But the harder part is something else,

Reading reports in the daily paper,

Hearing of recent enemy actions,

Dear God, this War’s no jolly caper.

Life must go on, keeping things together,

Maintaining home, things of that kind,

Wondering what’s happening out in France -

It’s always hard on those left behind.

The not knowing works upon the nerves,

Never hearing anything that’s clear,

Always imagining the very worst,

Ever feeling that dreadful, creeping fear.

She wants for all of it to be over,

She longs to lead a normal life.

It’s so hard to keep up the bravest face,

But she knows her man looks to his wife.

She’s the commander of the Home Front,

Doing her bit, doing her own share.

He needs something to come home to,

And it’s her job to make sure that it’s there.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

The Battle Ahead

The Battle Ahead

Yet another day to get through:

It’s the only way they can be sure -

There’s always more equipment,

And relentless training to endure.

They look around and watch the other men,

See determination in their eyes.

They’re focused on what they’re doing,

Just a bunch of regular guys.

The trainers shout encouragement,

There’s no let-up in the toil and sweat.

They’ve got to keep on making progress,

For there’s the daily targets to be met.

Every man here has his reasons,

Knows he’s got to do what’s right,

For he’s got to be prepared,

And ready for the coming fight.

Out there, it’s going to be relentless:

No-one will have time to wait for you.

They’ll have to be fit and healthy,

If they’re to have any chance to pull through.

There’ll come a time when they are on their own,

Even though their body’s wracked with pain.

They’ll need to look out for what’s coming,

And pick themselves up, time and time again.

For the battle has moved along now:

And it’s not in foreign fields they roam,

But right back here in Britain,

In the place that will soon be home.

The enemy has changed in nature:

It’s not unseen men with explosives.

The fight’s all about understanding,

Against an apathy that’s become corrosive.

Overcoming injury and debility,

Working circuits round the floor,

The rehabilitation seems endless:

A soldier’s never-ending war.

Life will surely change for the worse -

Even getting around is far from fun.

Missing limbs and other wounds,

Means carrying a stick, no longer a gun.

Discomfort, agony and pain,

The wounds, the stitches and the cuts –

It’ll take bravery and persistence,

And more than a fair share of guts.

Medical staff are the ones giving the orders,

They’re the guys to be obeyed.

Though “Operating Theatre” means something else,

There’s still good reasons to be afraid.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Bumps & Bruises

Bumps And Bruises

Be careful, darling, as you crawl along,

Beware the dangers on the ground.

I’ll try my best to protect you,

Because your Daddy’s no longer around.

There’s things out here that could harm you,

My precious, listen hard to me.

It would be so easy to hurt yourself,

With perils that you might never see.

You can’t know yet, but it’s a bad world out there,

In ways you cannot even conceive,

And there’s a struggle that’s going on,

With men fighting for what they believe.

They’re at it now in lands far away,

Armed forces pitched in terrible fight -

I can’t expect you to understand it,

But they’re just doing what they know to be right.

It’s why your Daddy went off last year:

He felt that he just had to go.

He was doing his job and playing his part:

He never meant to be a hero.

He wasn’t especially brave or tough -

Just a regular guy doing his bit,

Dressed up in his uniform,

And carrying the usual kit.

He was a soldier, trained and true,

Posted on patrol near foreign borders.

He didn’t question what he had to do,

But carried on, and followed orders.

We missed him during every tour,

Time without him always seemed to drag.

But we understood the job he did,

For Queen, and Country and the flag.

He expected to come back home to us,

Just like all the other men,

But too many bumps and bruises,

Means that we’ll not see him again.

We’re alone now, there’s just you and me;

You’re my precious, you’re my beauty,

You’ll grow to admire that soldier, your father:

A man protecting your freedom, and doing his duty.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

Welcome To Your World

Welcome To Your World 

This poem was written to welcome the news that the world population had just passed the 7 billion mark

Happy Birthday! Welcome to the planet!

Being late would have been such a crime,

Good you didn’t leave it any longer, though,

In fact you’ve got here just in time!

There’s been a lot of babies born lately:

You’re number seven billion, as it goes,

But you’re such a pretty little baby,

Just look at those lickle fingers and toes!

You see, things are getting rather crowded,

As you can most probably guess.

We haven’t had the time to clear things up,

We’re really sorry about all the mess.

It’s just that we’ve been really busy,

I’m sure we’ll find a little space for you.

You don’t take up very much room – yet,

But you’ll have to join the back of the queue.

You see, human life is competitive,

And just getting through it has been our goal,

We haven’t had chance to bury the waste,

Whilst we were digging all of the coal.

Resources are all in short supply,

Because of this recent baby boom,

And the really bad news, if you’re desperate,

Is that there’s a long wait for the bathroom.

Anyway, I’d best leave you my advice,

Give you my opinion before I go:

There’s a few problems that need sorting out,

I just thought you should probably know.

We never did find cure for cancer,

Malaria’s still a killer I think,

And we did get a bit carried away -

So a few species did become extinct.

I think we’ve cocked up the environment,

With rivers diverted and the lakes shrunk.

We’ve produced quite a lot of waste,

And, circling the planet, we’ve left lots of junk.

I know it looks like we’ve used everything up,

And, yes, there’s a fair bit of pollution,

But don’t worry about it for too long,

Because scientists are seeking a solution.

Burial plots are full – standing room only,

Which is an increasing problem, I fear,

But you’ve got to keep things in proportion –

Given that we’ve dissolved the atmosphere!

Did we really need the ice-caps anyway?

The planet can take its chances -

We’ll get out of this pickle somehow,

There’s bound to be technical advances!

With all this increased life expectancy,

Better health care, space flights and GM food,

What have we got to worry about?

We should be in a much better mood!

So religion, world hunger and crime,

Are topics I feel I ought to mention.

The planet’s probably buggered I fear -

If you could give it your best attention?

So I hope you’ll have a great party,

With cake and jelly, and music that’s loud.

Don’t worry too much about who to invite -

I’m sure there’ll be bloody big crowd.

Best of luck, and I’ll leave you to it then.

I hope you have a life that’s happy and sunny,

Although I think I forgot to mention,

That we haven’t left you any money.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019