My brother's somewhere hiding,
first comes counting, then comes finding
but this child that I am minding
my last nerve he's tightly winding

Mum and Dad have gone out dining
on their date night, romance shining
while the little brat is whining
hidden in the curtain lining

So I'll get on with my writing
cause it must be more exciting
to be sat here with my rhyming
as my skills they need refining.

Now the little ork is pining
still not found, my name he's crying
eyes accusing me of lying....
Is a pinky promise binding?

Raise your glass.

This is for the man
Who taught me how to ride a bike
When I was five years old,
Who taught me how to lay a brick
Wall with my own two hands,
Who taught me how to love
My heritage and my roots
While embracing change and newness.

Raise your glass.

This is for the woman
Who carried me for nine months
Whilst giving me my love of steak,
Who read stories of imaginable fantasy
And sang crackling fireside songs
To lull me into slumber,
Who taught me to Love
Even when she herself had forgotten how.

Raise your glass.

This is for the women
Who know me better than anyone else
For they have grown with me
In ways only siblings can,
Who taught me to fight for myself
And simultaneously be merciful
For I am not a perfect person,
Who gave me all the love I need
And then some simply because
They wanted to.

Raise your glass.

This is for who we were.
This is for who we are.
This is for who we will be.

Raise your glass.

Some blood is thinner than water.
Some ties more easily severed.
Yet we live because they existed
If even but for a single moment
And for that,
We give tribute.

Drink.

I am
Eve.
It is my task
To sample the fruit,
To romance the serpent,
To
Fall.
It is my task
To corrupt.

I am
Eve.
It is my duty to be pure.
My burden
Is skin
Is shame
Is
Pleasure.
It is my charge
To be a symbol,
To be a statue--
Smooth, perfect marble
Cold and unmoldable.

But
My flesh
Gives
Under fingers.
My smoothness
Has heat.
Has breath.
Has
Blood.

I am
Eve.
It is my calling
To be a paradigm.
Still and quiet as a
Painting or mural
Which can be pointed to
And admired.
It is my role.
I am something
To aspire to.
Something to acquire.
Something to
Protect.

I am
Eve.
It is my destiny
To disappoint.
It is my fate
To fail.
It is my study
To ******.

I have been to trial
By power.
It is my crime
To burn the garden.
It is my obligation
To be
Deceived.

I am Eve.
And I am
Unprepared.

I've been kicking round here
for nearly twenty years
I'm a singer no one's heard of
I play for smoke and beers
I'm an overnight sensation
I'll make you smile or bring tears
I've been kicking round here
For nearly twenty years

Right now I'm playing at a place
On cinder blocks and wood
It's not the worst stage that I've played
In fact, it is quite good
The crowd is small, the beer is cold
But, it's the best bar in the hood
I'm playing for my beer and smokes
On cinder blocks and wood

The music is my heartbeat
The people are my muse
I play because I love to
****, man...I've paid my dues
I'm an overnight sensation
Playing what you want to hear
I've been playing for the people
For near on twenty years

The crowd looks up, some clap a bit
Most live above the bar
At least if they don't like the show
They don't have to go too far
It's just me up here, alone and bare
Taking tips in an old jar
I play mainly for my beer and smokes
For the folks above the bar

I've never made the big time play
I hit the road but not for long
I write my stuff, but cover most
Because in truth, my life's a song
I sing old stuff more than glammed up tunes
To sell out, to me is wrong
If I'm not here, I won't be far
I hit the road, but not for long

The music is my heartbeat
The people are my muse
I play because I love to
****, man...I've paid my dues
I'm an overnight sensation
Playing what you want to hear
I've been playing for the people
For near on twenty years

I know I am a dinosaur
I sing songs that drip with age
Most bars I play once hosted folks
Who sang these tunes upon their stage
But, now, it's me and empty chairs
Beer and smokes make up my wage
I know I am a dinosaur
Singing songs that drip with age

I sing County Western
Not 'bout beer, and girls in shorts
I sing about the country
Of heartache, not of sports
I show you what's beneath the crust
Without makeup, and with warts
I sing Country Western
Not 'bout beer, and girls in shorts

The music is my heartbeat
The people are my muse
I play because I love to
****, man...I've paid my dues
I'm an overnight sensation
Playing what you want to hear
I've been playing for the people
For near on twenty years

There's a meanie on the monkey bars
He's swinging to and fro
He's kicking at the other kids
and telling them to go,
He will not let them play here
it makes the others sad
that was until my brother
came a'crying to my Dad.

My Dad he is a Viking
eyes like oceans, hair of gold,
his shoulders are like boulders
and his glare could turn hell cold
Across the park he walked with Ephraim,
and the monkey bars did mount,
then hurtled straight toward this lad
with his loudest war-cry shout.

The meanie dropped and bolted,
didn't want to wait for more
from this crazy guy, with fury's eye,
feet an inch above the floor.
He made sure every kid was hung
like washing on the line
and then he hung there with them
that crazy Dad of mine.

You can philosophise all day long,
this world contains more than we know.
More than we see, and in some cases
some things we've already seen.
That strong sensation of having been somewhere,
of knowing what a place had once been.
Never getting lost in new places, of remembering old faces.

This precognition scares science, they label it
'Schizophrenic', 'anxiety' and my personal favourite;
the 'dissociative identity disorder'.
Here's a straight jacket for you!
I prefer déjà vu,
such an elegant French description,
even better, they don't hand out a prescription to 'cure' it!

Déjà entendu, "already heard",
the experience of feeling sure that one has already heard something,
ever thought your name was being called?
That you heard whispers in the night,
Only to be told it's the 'house settling'?
How many of us have shook our heads,
and said 'I'm getting old, I'm hearing things!'

These phenomena don't come and go
they stay, they are older than time,
they've always been, just never seen.
Platitudes placate your puzzled mind,
but what if these things are just rips in time?
A leak from the past, occasionally a glimpse of the future?
Or maybe it's all just history's forgotten soft sighs*.

The sea has shown me
Many things
Like how to float
How not to sink
To be aware of danger's tales
To live amongst the sharks
The whales
The sea she cures my sores
With salt
Waves that shave my
Every thought
The wind she sends
A scent that melts
Everything I thought I felt
In the sand a name was carved
The waves they came
& Dissolved it off
Nothing left of me and you
I watch the sun pass by the moon
And slide my body through the sand
And swim unseen
Till I see land

Why is it hard to smile ? Why is it hard to think? Why is it so hard to look at someone else and think it's you why do I gotta have memories replay on my mind when I'm trying to sleep why do you pop In my head when I say I love you? Why are you not letting me move on since you already have? Why is it so hard to just let everything go? Why is it so hard to move on? Why is it so hard to listen to the radio without a memory of us replaying in my mind like a song? Maybe it's a sign for hope for the future or maybe the devil is just playing with my heart. Going into the land of lies and grief maybe this is my place in the world? Or maybe I just gotta go through hell till I learn my lesson

My English teacher asked us
to bring a poem in
one that really speaks to us
that resonates within
I did a lot of research
read poems through the night
Wordsworth, Keats, nor Shakespeare
could help me with my plight
I needed just one poem,
an expression to confess
my deeply burning hatred
of this teacher, unimpressed.
So I rifled through the classics,
through the bigwigs and the toffs
but all I found were thee's and thou's and an awful lot of doths
then I was sent a masterpiece
that describes these thoughts of mine
when this teacher says my poetry
is just a waste of time,
so I'll read it out in class today,
then with the Head I'll end up sat
but I'll always be so grateful
that John Cooper Clarke wrote ****.

Help me to see you for who you are
To experience, unadulterated
Unhinge and free me
You could burn away this illusion
With a single kiss, tonight
The softest touch
Naked, deception
Please, that feeling
Points me nowhere
Who are you