You told me somewhere yesterday and somewhere else the day before that what we're really waiting for
is an omen from some shaman who lives in Battersea or was it Tooting, but I'm counting on the abacus
there's three beads for the two of us and one bead for the shaman if he's a man at all,
there is word out on the corner stone, a marker, come home alkadry or don't dry out just stay out where the termites hone their skills on autocue pro forma wills and will you dine with god tonight or will it be the devils light you see?

The omen comes and with a codicil, old ladies, laughing gums upon the white washed window sill, I still admire the old girls with desire, with that tiny bit of fire that won't let go,
I know I do go on a bit and most of what I write is gold haha, (**** would've rhymed there, why didn't I think of it)

I'm too old to give a monkeys ***,
gold or **** is just the same to me
each one has its poetry,
the shaman doesn't see it
I'm not surprised
at all.

Oh Weather Girl, so smart and slim,
Safe in your air-conditioning,
Coiffured and prinked, make-up in place;
No freckles on that flawless face,
Nor sweat upon your marble brow –
I wonder if you’ll ever know
How much your dulcet verbiage
Sends me insane with helpless rage.

You tell me, as the best of news:
‘It’s a good day for barbecues,
‘for the high pressure over Spain
‘will block out the Atlantic rain;
‘the outlook’s fine, with lots of sun,
‘and we’ll have highs of thirty-one’.
And then you flash your perfect teeth,
Complacency beyond belief!

You stupid woman, don’t you know
My flowers and veg need rain to grow?
And since there’s been a hosepipe ban
I have to use my watering-can.
It hasn’t rained for days and days:
Do you know how much water weighs?

Of course the fault’s not down to you,
You only read the autocue;
But could you, please, once in a while,
Just switch off that ****** smile!!

The occupation

Black is yellow
Amber is green
War is peace
And everything is the truth
When spoken from an autocue.
By a man who never got
An Oscar.
More wars in Afghanistan
And it will go on till someone loses
In this case, the invaders.
A dead sea of suffering
May the west be forgiven
Trespassing
In the Middle East.
In the end, Israel
The western transplant
Will not set root.
Two thousand years is a long time.