Sunday, 21 September 2008
_through the mist
Through the mist stands a tower
That no-one has seen
But on every hour
The chimes resound
As the bells ring out
In dusty old books
Pictures and graphs
Estimate details
And speculate facts
Of the tower’s age and its origin.
If legend’s believed then guarding the tower’s doors
Are a brethren of owls who chase away trespassers.
Late in the night the villagers meet
To share their proposals of who it should be
To walk through the mist
Outside of the walls
To see if there’s really a tower at all
But week after week there’s no volunteer
Just frozen expressions and unspoken fear
Sooner or later all will be clear
On one sunny morn when the mist disappears
Seven miles north of Robin Hood’s Bay
There’s a series of potholes
That run right the way to the western tip of the Peak District.
After every four years at quarter to three
A genius flautist appears from the caves
Playing skilfully
The purest of melodies
After every performance a squadron of local moles
Shout out their encores although it’s to no avail
Just out of sight
With a hipflask of gin
There’s a record executive stroking his chin
Pondering life and what it all means
And whether he’s satisfied sealing his deals
Maybe he’ll sell everything that he owns
To purchase a beautiful North Yorkshire home
The fresh country air of Hutton-le-Hole
Has got to be better than selling fool’s gold.
On a clear cloudless night we turn of the headlights
When the moon shines so bright we can see the way
Climbing up the winding staircase
Looking at the hedgehog landscape
Scratch away the thin veneer
Underneath lies the original features
That no-one has seen
But on every hour
The chimes resound
As the bells ring out
In dusty old books
Pictures and graphs
Estimate details
And speculate facts
Of the tower’s age and its origin.
If legend’s believed then guarding the tower’s doors
Are a brethren of owls who chase away trespassers.
Late in the night the villagers meet
To share their proposals of who it should be
To walk through the mist
Outside of the walls
To see if there’s really a tower at all
But week after week there’s no volunteer
Just frozen expressions and unspoken fear
Sooner or later all will be clear
On one sunny morn when the mist disappears
Seven miles north of Robin Hood’s Bay
There’s a series of potholes
That run right the way to the western tip of the Peak District.
After every four years at quarter to three
A genius flautist appears from the caves
Playing skilfully
The purest of melodies
After every performance a squadron of local moles
Shout out their encores although it’s to no avail
Just out of sight
With a hipflask of gin
There’s a record executive stroking his chin
Pondering life and what it all means
And whether he’s satisfied sealing his deals
Maybe he’ll sell everything that he owns
To purchase a beautiful North Yorkshire home
The fresh country air of Hutton-le-Hole
Has got to be better than selling fool’s gold.
On a clear cloudless night we turn of the headlights
When the moon shines so bright we can see the way
Climbing up the winding staircase
Looking at the hedgehog landscape
Scratch away the thin veneer
Underneath lies the original features
Saturday, 20 September 2008
_the factory in a garden
Put your tools down
Put your tools down
We won't be long
We won't be long
16,000 people gathering in deep respect
Everyone a testament of the life he'd given them
For he built their houses
Planted each a garden
Gave them back their dignity
Taught their children literacy
16,000 people given opportunity
Rescued from obscurity
Lifted out of poverty
Treated individually
Not as a commodity
Room to stretch and spread their wings
Not caged in as battery hens
Put your tools down
We won't be long
We won't be long
16,000 people gathering in deep respect
Everyone a testament of the life he'd given them
For he built their houses
Planted each a garden
Gave them back their dignity
Taught their children literacy
16,000 people given opportunity
Rescued from obscurity
Lifted out of poverty
Treated individually
Not as a commodity
Room to stretch and spread their wings
Not caged in as battery hens
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