Up at o'four thirty
And down to bed at twenty-two
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

The trumpet's sound is the call of day
And the call of the trumpet ends the day,
But not the same.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

The sounds of boots in perfect sync,
Is interrupted in a blink.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

A battle rages between the groups,
But defeat is near to the troops.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

Men and boys cry alike,
As no help from allies is in sight.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

War as it seem is not lifelike,
Instead it causes death and fights.
A mother's lad he is,
And a mother's lad he was.

Up at o'four thirty
And down to bed at twenty-two
This is a tale of a mother's lad,
A mother's lad he was.

I hope that this doesn't last forever
and I get used to fully being alone.

I hope I forget how nice it is to be touched,
to be held, to be desired.
I hope I forget and never remember.

Because I can't do this anymore.
I sleep too much, I don't eat,
I hate the way I look (more so).

I'm jealous but bordering on envious.
I want to be what people want me to be
but I am not going to compromise what little of me I have left.

So please, if anything that has the power to help is listening....

I don't want to do this anymore.

I wonder to the bar and see lipstick
tags holding on to lonely sticks.
A stirring of moments, melting pots of
relaxing reflection they called it dove.
As your worries fly away with everyone
you have, and then I'm served and done.

Collecting my shuffling skills to weave
the ocean of others, our drinks we've
been able to keep from sinking on others.
Thirsty friends awaiting our return, like
maidens on the shore, smiling a dislike
for a wrong drink brought. acting childlike.

But he holds no argument as butts lay
static. We were the sailors escaping the spray.
Telling them of our journeys and sights seen,
mouths a gasp at observing a beautiful scene.
A number taken with but a glance of smiling
eyes and with a drink brought clearly willing.

He knows that is for another time, as the street  
we surrender to. As hunger outweighs sweet
perfumes enticing friends to anchor away from
needing mates. Aromas perforate a needed outcome,
handing over spare change to fulfil a nights hunger.
Laughing as were old, never wishing we were younger.

As wisdom teaches that a fish may swim,
but to much of a good thing can end in a whim.
So one must always leave a little in a glass,
for we need not want our slumber to be on grass.
Awoken in our beds slighty misty eyed but
a nice number in the phone and in my pocket a peanut?

Money Talks

and what it said back then on the railway bridge
at Bloomfield Road (no longer there of course)
was "You can spare me – it means only one less
penny ice lolly from the corner shop !" (no longer
there of course) and the train will make me huge
(steam no longer here of course) and the others
will laugh and cheer as you scramble down to
the line place me centred and climb back up
here again before the train shoots through to
Central Station (no longer there of course).

Gigantic copper-coloured disc and this recall.
Still talking half a century after.

(c) C J Heyworth August 2014