Started back last summer with
a piece of bad news.
Why us?  Why now? What have we done
to deserve this?  But no-one is to blame.
And  you try and make the best of things.
You say "Nah, that can't be right!
They must've got it wrong!"
But they haven't.  
They most certainly have not.
For these are the end days.

And so from then on you try to
carry on as normal, whatever 'normal' is,
praying for some kind of miracle,
hoping against hope that one will be granted.
You smile like an idiot at strangers,
trying to be friendly, looking for support,
but looking plain weird,
your emotions in a whirl
and your feelings jumbled.
For these are the end days.

You go down the pub, have a beer,
play cards, laugh if you can,
but it's always there,
a shadow hanging over you
like the ace of spades,
poised to slice you in two.
You try and joke on social media,
post a little music, just to keep sane,
but your heart's not really in it.
For these are the end days.

How long do we have?  No-one knows.
And if they do, they don't answer directly.
You make your own daily forecast
in this new and strangely sad world.
Sunny skies one day, cloudy the next.
You have to stay strong whatever happens,
yet you fear the inevitable worst.
We are grateful we have good friends
to help us through.
For these are the end days.

So long ago in King Hal’s time, our nets we cast upon the wave;
and drawing in did stand a-feared at what we’d caught in Orford Bay.

Entangled ‘midst our dripping catch, with eyes that stared all hellish green,
enscaléd like some creature deep, a Merman writhed as one obscene.

All webbéd were his hands and feet, his body dripped with ocean bile;
upon his head the ****-wrack grew, green-bearded was this demon vile.

Fast to the shore with awful haste we sped before the wind and tide;
Lord Glanville for to summon forth, the Merman’s fate all to decide.

Upon the quay his Lordship stood with men at arms and shriven priest,
and all did cross themselves in fear before this strange unholy beast.

“Enchain it,” cried Lord Glanville loud, “then to God’s Kirk with all good speed!”
The shriven priest prayed long and hard as to the church we did proceed.

With Holy Water, cross of gold, with candle and with testament,
the priest then exorcised the beast, who knew not what was done nor meant.

To all’s dismay he would not bow before the Host on bended knee;
and so to dungeon was he dragged to dwell upon his blasphemy!

The silent Merman beaten was, and hung in chains in for seven weeks,
and fed was he on fish and shells, yet never did he sleep nor speak.

And so at length his Lordship said, “Across the harbour tie a net,
and we shall see how he shall swim, but by his ankles chainéd, yet!”

The net a-fixed, the village folk came down to see the Merman’s plight;
into the sea they threw him then, with foam and wavelet flashing white.

He vanished ‘neath the waters like some seabird in pursuit of prey,
then surfaced laughing, chain in hand, and to his Lordship he did say;

“You thought to make me such as you, who walk in blindness o’er the land!
You’d punish me for difference!  You thought to treat me like a Man!”

So long ago in King Hal’s time our nets we cast upon the wave;
and drawing in did stand a-feared at what we’d caught in Orford Bay.

“Have you heard all that nonsense that’s going on now?”
Said the Mother Hen, clucking, to Daisy the Cow.
“I was watching the TV through Farmer Giles’ door,
Oh, it makes me feel happy to be where we are!
There’s a strange orange man in a far distant land
that is shaking his wattle, he can’t understand
why he hasn't a friend in the whole big wide world,
and he says that he hates us for not being pearls
before swine - not that I have a grudge against Pigs,
I mean, did I not once allow them to dig
all around my fine hen-house before we were moved,
far away from the paddock ‘til drainage improved?
Even so, said the man on TV with a grin,
there’s a place called the Middle East where we can’t win.
And another, I think that they said was Iraq?
May the Great Chicken Spirit please send our boys back!
Oh, I tell you, old Daisy, we’re better off here
being just farmyard animals, having no fear!
And who do you reckon keeps telling us lies?
Says we’ll all end up frozen or baked into pies?
What I know now, my friend - and my sisters and brothers -
is that all Men are evil, and some more than others!

“They believe everything they read,
but they don’t understand a word of it”

Yeah, right . . .

“They say the world was created in six days,
but they never worked a day in their lives”

That’s so true . . .

“They say the world is the centre of everything,
but they’re at the centre of their personal universes”

So I’m told . . .

“They say a lot of things,
but they’re so busy talking that they don’t ever listen”

Guess so . . .

“I’m telling you, Lucifer,
we should’ve stuck with the giant lizards”

….. and with that God sadly
put down the phone.

Imprisoned in some nameless jail
and, like ten thousand inmates pale,
I counted time I could not feel,
and stood on head, and then on heel.

So turn and turn again about,
like other tortured souls I shout,
yet am not heard, my temples pound,
beneath life’s torrents am I drowned!

Ignored am I, like one and all,
save for the early morning call
that shakes us from our torpor, aye,
and then we fall like hail from sky.

Inevitably down through time
we are mere specks, as dust and grime,
yet in our falling purge our sin,
our labours end, then re-begin.

For lost are we within this sphere,
for all eternity, I fear!
A universe where all are ******,
within a timer’s grains of sand.

I heard them as I walked through cobbled streets
made damp by a late December squall.
Sheltered by stained red-brick walls,
shunned by shoppers, and deliberately ignored
by those of a certain wealth who deem any individual
to be of an inferior race, they played old airs
upon makeshift, much-travelled instruments.

A battered top-hat stuck with peacock's feathers,
a pinstriped waistcoat that had seen better days,
a gold watch-chain hung with lucky charms
beneath his paisley cravat, gnarled hands caress
a knee-held drum as he beats out a timeless rhythm
that echoes around the thronging streets
like a half-forgotten memory.

Clad in stained and crumpled jeans,
weather-beaten face half-hidden by the
downturned brim of a leather drover's hat;
the singer barely looks up at his transient audience;
his faded combat-jacket buttoned tight against the rain
as his leaking boots dance an unconscious jig
across wet flagstones.

Beside him a dented steel-guitarist sits on an upturned milk crate,
his grey dreadlocks cascade back from his side-shaved head;
his tattoos flicker like feedback from his unsafe amp,
barely connected by dubious wiring to a ***** car-battery,
as "Old Bold Captain Preedy" is re-released into a sputtering sound-system with all the reverence of the 23rd Psalm.

And I will fear no evil, for thy existence and style, they comfort me,
and thy music is always with me.

Under a cataclysmic sky
they sheltered from a wind so hot
it burned green leaves to ashes
as they watched in fascinated horror.

They’d not seen anyone else for days
and, having found each other,
had become inseparable companions
lost in a world turned awry.

Behind a crumbling wall they sought refuge
in what once had been a garden,
its solitary tree bearing what they knew
to be the last of mankind’s fruit.

Starving, he plucked it from the twisted branch
and clumsily made her an offering of love.
She smiled sadly at his youthfulness,
but took it nonetheless, biting to the heart.

“You never did tell me your name” she whispered.
“Adam” sighed the boy, “What’s yours?”
“Eve” she replied, brushing away a tear
as acid rain fell on them like venom.