English Jam Mar 19
Let’s go leaping in the rain
It doesn’t matter when
It doesn’t matter how
But let’s go sailing hand in hand
Somehow we’ll make a plan
Who needs details when you’ve got style?
Improvise, on the fly, you make me love, after all
It’ll be just like a movie from some era we’ve forgotten
When cigarettes were healthy
And we had Gregory Peckory
I miss those days (oh, there he goes on again about those days)
Those long, silly, fabulously fabulous days

One day, it’s like a bitty baddy scooby shoo-up
Someday, like a shimmy shammy woody wah-do
I don’t care about the timing
No need for fine lining
So we don’t need to be a-streamlining
Let’s just go to the roof (the moon), the ceiling (Mars!) -
Anywhere we’d be feeling
For some fine dining
And then a little hop! A little skip!
In the rain - or even if it’s plain
All that matters is that we’re together (how cliched)
(but so very true)

Just some pure, precious rain
So vaudeville and mischievous
Pretentious and mysterious
I will row the boat with my lovely, splendid muscles (there he goes again)
We’ll set the sea on fire (who needs logic anyways?)
And we can shout it to the skies
Wild parties recalling Gatsby and his crew
Steal a minibus (minibus)
But it’s the future, so steal an omnibus (omnibus)
Then zig-zag, jet - lag, tick-tock, on the clock, don’t stop, let’s go
We can do
Some extravagant outfits
Colourful! goofy!
but very fashionable (there she goes again, falling into his arms)
We can dance in the rain (there we all go again, laughing at his charms)
Cause I Miss
          - Those
          - Days -
(Plus I love you) now how bout a kiss?
As I poured out my cereal, fresh from the pack

With a splash of lamb's-milk then the cornflakes turned black

So I boiled up some porridge that looked more like gruel

As my spirit was hungry and needed that fuel,

I ingested the starch and the gluten-drenched oats

To recover the strength that religion promotes

But it sat in my stomach like solid cement

And the best I could do was collapse and repent,

The immeasurable weight of instructions to pray

Like a cross on my shoulders, compelled me to stay

In positions of penitence; rooted, inert-

Until death designated my place in the dirt,

The identity, native now slave to be owned

By the clamouring contest for conscience, atoned

Was supplanted by statements from God's rationale

And the needs like the weeds in a bleak chaparral

Got a hold on the nuanced discretions of life,

Put ambitions beneath the Inquisitors knife

And deluded uniqueness identity bred,

The reward only realised when we are dead,

I was drawn to effeminate virtues and charms

But my acts were forbidden by judges and psalms

And my love couldn't blossom to bear any fruit

With the counterweight crushing, my values were moot,

In an effort to 'cure' me, the breakfast was served,

And authority told me it's all I deserved

And I'd learn with their help a divine self-control

If I eat all the cereal poured in my bowl,

But the prize for a bachelored, childless wreck

Is a vacant amount on a countersigned cheque,

The encashment of which only strengthens the brands

With a will and a testament gripped in the hands

Of a dying man's final catharsis in print

With his backbone all broken, secured with a splint,

Would an IOU cover the ritual pain

Of conformity selling a loss as a gain?

It's a question unanswered but readily found

As the coffin is lowered in nondescript ground,

Could a faith not extend its magnanimous grace

To a man who was born with particular ways?

— The End —