The grim reaper

I love the grim reaper,
He gets us all,
The sods and the saints alike.
The men of means
and the tramps in piss-soaked rags

Beware the doctors offering worlds     
free from sickness and infirmity,
To tamper with nature
Is to usher in an age of greed.

Withot the pressing hand of death,
Bill Gates would hang on to his billions.
He would need them - for his old age -
in a thousand years or so.

But death is the poor man’s friend,
He alone evens out the score.
Death  is  the headmaster walking through the playground
Without his stern presence
There would be no justice, no decency and no God.


Charlie Watts

Who is that man over there, making such a noise?
Why it is the ghost of Charlie Watts banging his drums.

Why does he bang his drums with such fury?
In life he banged with all his might,
Loud enough to wake the neighbours
And through his banging,
made so much money,
That people gasped and stared with envy.

And now that he is dead, He cannot see the money pouring in,
And so in fury he picks up sticks and bangs the sacred skins.
To bring the money tumbling in - cash that he will never hold.

And tell me how fares his drumming now?
Has it improved much since his death?
No, it is still the same.
As loud and as lucrative as e’er it was.


A little old lady knocked me off my bike

Until I saw her eyes, I thought she was going to stop,
and pull up at gently the junction.

But her eyes were wide and she dithered like a frightened rabbit,
Edging inexorably towards me.
‘No,’ I screamed, putting my hand up to stop her.
She braked, and then in abject terror,
Put her foot hard down on the accelerator
And ploughed into me,
hammering into my leg,                
And sending me toppling to the asphalt.

It felt good to tell her what a cunt she was.
To tell her that she was a fucking stupid old cunt,
To see her terrified, tremulous, scared for her life,
As I stood by the side window, spitting abuse at her.

It was interesting to watch her lip tremble and the tears start,
As I threatened to sue her,
To take away all her money,
So that she died broke and friendless,
Tossed into a pauper’s grave.

As I got up and pedalled up the hill,
My buckled back wheel scraping against the bicycle frame,
The poor dear was crying freely,
Her nearside door was open and the tears were smearing her makeup
 And causing rivulets in the dry powder on her face.

I had her phone number and address and car registration number
Written on the back of an envelop in my pocket
Should I ring her up and talk to her again?
Send her bills and threatening letters?
Should I phone the police and get them to take away her license,
Or should I should I show compassion,
Put it all down to experience,
Forget that brief unhappy moment?

It’s nice to go out cycling, to have the wind in your hair
 And to feel that sense of power
And, those accidents?
Well, it’s only in adversity
That your true character is forged.