Peter built a paper boat
Which he could float about the sea
To hidden spots of lonely coast
Where not a ghost or man would be
He painted words along her bough
That soon would plough and skip and trot
Between the waves that rose and falled
The boat was called 'Forget Me Not'

He bid his wife a fond goodbye
The tide was high when he embarked
He drifted from his tiny cove
While weather drove and seagulls larked
He set his course horizon bound
For solid ground of ****** shore
As darkness came he made a bed
To keep his head above the floor

The voyage took him straight and true
Across the blue, toward the sun
But soon a tongue of lightening spat
And thunder rattled like a gun
The waves encircled hungrily
And angrily about their prey
The tempest heaved with no regret
It blew Forget Me Not away

He found himself all caked in sand
And on a strand of desert beach
Forget Me Not had run aground
But safe and sound from tidal reach
He folded down his paper yacht
And found a spot to build a home
But saved the sail and rudder strings
To forge some wings and daily roam

He glided high and long and wide
Past mountainside and shore to shore
And through the night he forged a blade
And with it made a lumber saw
He felled the trunk and snared the beast
And cooked a feast to celebrate
The rain it sought to disagree
But quick was he to remonstrate

The moonlight waxed and waned apart
And on his heart a longing formed
For home and his beloved bride
For fireside and there be warmed
And so he took the house he'd made
From humid shade of seldom oak
He set the island to his aft
And cried and laughed the words he spoke

They matched the words he'd lately hewn
Beneath the moon in shady spot
He carved into that seldom tree
'Remember me, forget me not'

The clouds were torn asunder
And a multitude of faces raised
And frozen still, the masses gazed
Unblinking eyes were wide and glazed
Legs were weak and wills were lame
And all upon the day they came

The glowing Discs held station
And cars collided in the street
As thousands took to fleeing feet
In terror of the silent fleet
The rich and poor were just the same
And all upon the day they came

The crowds were quickly scattered
Yet signals grew and camps were made
And opportunists plied their trade
As shadows moved, possessions strayed
Looted shops gave way to flame
And all upon the day they came

The tension slowly rising
Anxiety and trepidation
Causing many consternation
Fear fuelling confrontation
Paranoia played its game
And all upon the day they game

The firelights cascaded
The cities blanketed in grey
With human nature on display
As violence had won the day
With no one but ourselves to blame
And all upon the day they came

They watched us with ill humour
With minds as calm as silicone
They saw each wound and broken bone
Each fire lit and bottle thrown
And horrified at human shame
They left upon the day they came

Every thought is leaden
Nothing in me wakes
My muse is sleeping soundly
No single sound she makes
I’ve reached my very limit
It will never let me pass
My breath obscures my vision
As I push against the glass

Ideas dart away from me
Like minnows from my hand
They hide at bay and taunt me
As motionless I stand
A tempest has me shrouded
A gale has me pinned
So, fighting every footstep
I lean into the wind

Frustration beads upon me
A bitter tasting rain
And rusted to my ankle
Is an iron ball and chain
The light has slowly faded
And just a single spark
Is what is remains to guide me
While crawling through the dark

When I’m a normal person
And I’m sure I think I can
I'll down my daily dosage
Like a mediocre man

I'll shuffle in my slippers
And I’ll own a dressing gown
Residing in a suburb
Of a standard little town

I'll hanker after gadgets
And mosey with the crowds
My clothes will be as colourless
As January clouds

I'll dabble in the markets
And cross my daily words
I'll cut the grass and trim the hedge
And mind I feed the birds

I'll always watch my language
I'll **** instead of ****
Enjoying ordinary days
Forgetting who I am

I'll burn away my being
For the mighty human hive
Existing on the borderline
Not dead but not alive

Jane the economy toaster
Was cheap as appliances go
Her unpolished sides were all greasy
And as grey as suburbanite snow

The edge of her slot was all melted
And her tray was encrusted with crumbs
Her lever was missing a handle
And would nibble at fingers and thumbs

She lived at the back of a cupboard
With some rusty old pans and a spider
In the gloom she would dream that somebody
Would hammer a muffin inside her

That some special son-of-a-baker
Would fill up her dusty old holes
With croissants and baguettes and bagels
With waffles and tea cakes and rolls

But alas with her family broken
The whisk and second-rate kettle
Her owners replaced the whole set
With something more classy in metal

And so in her murky wee crevice
She wept and she twiddled her ****
She twitched her lever with envy
Of the toaster that lives by the hob

Jane faded away and she vanished
But in silicone heaven she boasts
That she's Jane the economy toaster
The maker of muffins for ghosts

A doctor who lost his dear wife
Took to probing the secrets of life
His intention was pure
Though success premature
Lead him quickly to trouble and strife

The notion popped into his head
To dig up the recently dead
With his stitching and knife
He created a life
Which promptly absconded and fled

He looked like the worst of mankind
But was blessed with a brilliant mind
He lurked in the wood
For as long as he could
But he yearned for the touch of his kind

To the doctor he went to proclaim
That his plight was of Frankenstein's blame
And he said he'd begin
To **** off his kin
Unless Frankenstein made him a dame

So the doctor stole bodies and stitched
With a frenzy, the man was bewitched
For his son would be saved
Once this woman, de-graved
Was alive and the monster was hitched

But a face at the window appeared
As his second success was neared
The creature was grinning
His eyeballs were spinning
In his trousers, a cobra had reared

So the doctor was filled up with guilt
And he tore up the woman he'd built
So the very next day
In a horrible way
His son was all strangled and ****'t

The doctor pursued his creation
Across countries with growing frustration
He went for a stroll
In the southern most pole
A long way off from civilization

The going was chilly and slow
But he finally caught up his foe
The creature was greater
He killed his creator
And buggered off into the snow

The End

There's an office away from the high street
Where the ordinance survey resides
And the walls there are painted with boredom
Not a singular giggle abides
But there's one room below, in the cellar
Where Connor completes the new maps
Adding green and blue spots and churches
Putting pine trees in all of the gaps

Now just two days before publication
He was feeling mischievous and bold
So he pulled out the map of his village
And he penned the words "Here Be Gold"
Then he folded them neatly and deftly
He took them for copy and print
Bid his colleagues a wonderful summer
And he left just approaching a sprint

So the map making season was over
And his handiwork soon was for sale
Connor waited and made preparation
To ensure that his scheme didn't fail
He rented a tired ice cream van
And he filled it with cunning supplies
When his phone rang one Saturday morning
He spoke with well measured surprise

That call brought a knock to his doorway
And a nod to a neighbouring field
With a mind to extract precious metals
And a promise of half of the yield
"That field belonged to my father"
Young Connor was quick to invent
"You can dig just as much as you like there
It's three hundred a day for the rent"

There was much in the way of discussion
Then a scratching of paper and pen
A shake of a hand and a smiling
They were gone by a quarter past ten
So he counted they money they left him
They had paid him a week in advance
It would certainly pay off the mortgage
With some left for a weekend in France

On Monday there came with a rumbling
A convoy of notable size
There were trailers with diggers and cabins
And vans full of tools and supplies
All halted by general consensus
They unloaded each pallet and crate
Not seeing that over the field
Young Connor had bolted the gate

With a fever they started to burrow
With the sun beating down on their backs
They were tiring by the mid morning
But provisions were curiously lax
When in rolled a tired ice cream van
Playing green sleeves in hideous tones
Soon the workers were queuing in masses
For Fanta and lollies and cones

But the bill drew a gasp from each punter
Though the thirst had them caught by the *****
So they paid the extortionate prices
And stripped to their workmanlike smalls
At the end of the day they departed
And only young Connor remained
With a plan and a shiny new toolbox
Which he'd only just lately obtained

The next day the foremen and drivers
Found their diggers unable to dig
The engines were gone from their bonnets
And the oil had escaped from their rig
There was much of the pointing and cursing
And some harsh accusations were made
In the end they decided to press on
And continue with bucket and *****

They made quite a hole in the field
And they slowly descended from sight
They were forty feet down by the evening
And lamenting the vanishing light
When one of them turned with a bucket
To ferry out some of the spoil
When he came to what should be a ladder
And found only two dents in the soil

Connor slept and he dreamed of his fortune
And was thankfully hardy and stout
Or he'd certainly be more exhausted
After dragging those ladders about
In the morning he took to the field
With a bag and a rope and a smile
He leaned forward and peering downwards
Did proclaim in benevolent style

"Ahoy there you diggers and bucket men
Are you stranded in this here hole?"
There were cries from the depths and more cursing
And pleas that would shatter the soul
"I am sorry but I have no ladders
But I do have a coil of rope
You'd better shed weight for I'm sickly
I'm afraid that I may well not cope"

"So take off your rings and your watches
Your mobile phones and your cash
And pile them into a bucket
I'll hoist them all out in a flash"
After further complaining and shouting
Connor stood with a bucket of loot
And with that he went back to his cottage
Twas a very successful commute

The next year in the ordinance survey
On the map of the place he resides
In the field that belonged to his father
Amid pine trees and yet more besides
There are words in the faintest of letters
Between pictures of diggers and tools
Saying "Here Be Gold if you know where to look
And a ****** great hole full of fools"