Fair stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power;

Which, in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
Unto him sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
"Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raised.

"And for myself (quoth he),
This my full rest shall be;
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.

"Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell;
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies."

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped
Amongst his henchmen.
Exeter had the rear,
A braver man not there; -
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces!
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But, playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbos drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went -
Our men were hardy!

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's Day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O, when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen;
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

I was twenty two when the war ended
I was in hospital in Burma
Served in the 82nd West Africa Division
Lost a leg, silly thing losing a leg
My own fault, war took it, but silly ******
It was my fault
We were in India at the time
Not much going on
Waiting for orders, ready to move on
A few of the lads decided to
well, you know...do what lads do
And we got a footy game going
Just a few of us
Major was on board, officers on one side
And Noncoms on the other
Rather civil game if I must say so
The heat was dreadful
Sweat was pouring off of us
And the mozzies were eating us alive
We'd cleared a field in the jungle
Imagine, clearing a pitch in the middle of India
Just to play football with the lads
Well, we did it
I went off after the first half
Walked out past the end line
tripped and heard a click
Nothing much, just a click
I thought, ******...ready to move on
No enemy around, and I'm going to die
In a jungle in India, playing footy
I didn't move, didn't breathe either
But, ten seconds on, it blew
And I went with it
woke up in Burma, field hospital
Leg was gone, ******* and my eye was covered
But, I was alive
All I wanted was a tea
And to know who won
silly ******, no leg and I want to know who won
Never did find out
It seems I stopped the game
silly ******
Well, here I am now sixty eight years on
Can't play footy anymore
Live in a veterans unit in Warwick
Oh, sorry, where are my manners?
I'm Arthur Johnston, lance corporal
No medal like those American chaps
No leg, but, no medal
Victoria Cross and St. Georges
not for this lad
Just doing my duty
Playing football in an Indian jungle
Wish I knew who won though
Getting dressed to go down stairs
Ceremonies start in half hour
I'm the last one left from my lads
Tuttle passed last spring, leaving me
Oldest one it here it seems
Except for that woman in housekeeping
She was a warden with CD
Got everyone in the tubes
During the blitz
Tough old crow she is
Took a brick in the head they say
Made the paper for that one
I lost a leg playing footy
Got a free trip to Burma
Can't get around too well anymore
They've got a special chair for me
Just for the ceremony
I have to lay a wreath
Funny thing, I looked at it
Plastic thing, poppies and ivy
Made in India
What are the chances?
I lay the wreath, salute the flag
and they put me away for another year
Well, better me than that old cow in housekeeping
At least that's what I say
Next year it could be me gone
Never can tell, eh?
Picked that up from a Canadian chap
Ridley Wilson, from British Columbia
I think it was British Columbia
Oh, here they are
time to go down and do my duty
Just like I have for the last 68 years
And the two before
Imagine, 70 years in service to the crown
That's longer than the Queen
Bless her cotton socks
Well, one thing I do know
It was worth it
Every last second of it
Up the empire I say
Even though we don't have one
A Commonwealth now,
Come to think of it
India's not ours anymore
and I think Burma's gone
funny thought,
I lost a leg playing footy
In a country we don't have
ending up in a place that doesn't exist
Just my luck....
Eyes's front, Salute
Oh am I going to feel that tomorrow
God save The Queen

The television is getting worse, I have noticed on its viewing
What the **** is going on, what do you think your doing ?
Maybe its ungrateful, but our minds are just left stewing
Why must people endure repeats, through years of program queuing?
An example is the game shows, there on every side just brewing
We're paying for the privilege, its the public that your *******

We don't want Deal Or No Deal, with all those crap crisp boxes
Q.I. is not that interesting, it has too many paradoxes
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire ? is that just a stupid question?
I would love to Strike It Lucky, so what is your suggestion?

Pointless has the correct name, cos that's exactly what it is
Has Jasper Carrot got Golden *****, or is he *******
Why is there ***** Money, did they ran out of toilet tissues
Julian Clary had Sticky Moments, and outrageous camping issues

Whenever Opportunity Knocks, well just open the door
If your going to Take Me Out, then what are you waiting for?
Don't Name That Tune In One, I'd rather hear it all
A Question Of Sport is so boring, its hardly on the ball

Is it the Weakest Link, because the chain is full of rust?
Didn't Blockbusters close down, and the video shop go bust ?
Why Should I Supermarket Sweep, Dale can sweep it himself
The pyramid Game is just, an apex polyhedron triangular shelf

I Don't want to go on Mastermind, and look like a ******* fool
If I went Through The Keyhole, then I must be minuscule
Why Would I Lie To You? wouldn't that be a bit two faced
I'm not sure if Celebrity Squares, are really all straight laced?
Could you please repeat yourself, I did not Catch that Phrase
Just how many crystals where there, in the Crystal Maze?

Was Spin Star cancelled, because celebrities where break dancing
Or was it Bradley Walsh's giant fruit, that needed some enhancing?
Why is it called The Chase, when there's no chasing involved?
The Chasers are sat on there arses, so The Chase is never solved

I don't think it is the Wheel Of Fortune, even if you do
You don't really get much fortune, till you solve the final clue
Paul Daniels said Every Second Counts, so forget the introductions
Just get on with the game play, don't even bother with instructions

Philip Schofield played with Five Gold Rings, isn't that just wrong
I thought that Five Gold Rings, belonged to a Christmas song
Ted Rogers read such stupid clues, it made it hard to win
No wonder 3.2.1 contestants, usually won poor Dusty Bin

I would really love to drink, some of that Celebrity Juice
But first I'll have to find out, which ones are tight or loose
I'm not lucky enough to have 300 Blanks, with a lovely lady in a bed
I'll have to hand it to myself, and have a Blankety Blank instead

Mr & Mrs is outdated, most Marriages are not enforced
Those couples who where happy once, are probably divorced
Treasure Hunt used a Helicopter, clues found by Anneka Rice
She ran around quite frantically, but her **** was rather nice

Isn't Ann Widdecombe a dark horse, she liked a Cleverdick
I Suspect if she had the chance, she'd like a **** that's thick
There used to be Telly Addicts, but now they are history
We no longer want Noel Edmunds, or crap games on our TV

Poor Bully tried to play Darts, but his aim was far to high
It isn't all that great or Super, missing the Bullseye
Come on now Jim its not fare, making the contestants cry
To look at what you could have won, and kiss the prize goodbye

Naked Jungle was a one off, Keith Chegwin in the buff
I'm glad it did not continue, so please don't Call My Bluff
Countdown has been on for years, we've had a ****** enough
Only Connect and 15 to 1, are hard and far too tough

Family fortunes and Eggheads, we don't want all this stuff
Fort Boyard and Mock The Week, stick them up you chuff
Going For Gold and Gladiators, too old and looking rough
University Challenge and Impossible, there really dull and duff

Never Mind The Buzzcocks, it's a forgotten piece of Fluff
Crosswits and Chain Letters, should be dragged of by the scuff
Hole in the wall and Alphabetical, are so right of the cuff
The Cube and The Million Pound Drop, I'd walk of in a huff

Many game shows throughout the years, all needed a good host
But there isn't any spontaneity, so none of them can boast
Instead of reading from a script,and acting liked their dosed
Take the plunge make it your own, don't be a mindless ghost
Why don't hosts try to be their best, and try to be their most
Wouldn't it make more sense, to keep your audience engrossed

Ben Shepherd comes to mind, he doesn't seem all there
With his ****** expressions, weird smile and stupid stare
How did he become a host, was it all based on a dare
Why is his act robotic, its more than we can bare

Its like watching a recording, this isn't really fare
If we are subjected to this crap, then we deserve a share
I guess its our misfortune, its enough to make you swear
We're already at our Tipping Point, so we no longer care

Now I'm not saying that every host, is as bad as old Ben Shep
In fact there is at least one guy,who has a better Rep
He may not be a large man, in fact he played a Lep
But at least he isn't wooden, and he's with you every step

Warwick Davis's Act is Tenable, and he has not compromised
With good hosting skills, jokes and quips Warwick has realized
Although I'm not a game show fan, I am pleasantly surprised
He stands tall over the other hosts, even though he is pintsized

Why keep making game shows, was there a voting pole?
I believe there are too many, they are so ******* droll
As bad as all reality, the schedules they both stole
Axe the ******* lot of them, and chuck them down a hole

Just take a look at Brucie, may god rest his soul
He was around for decades, and hosting was role
Taking over all the shows, seemed to be old Brucie's goal
The years weren't kind to old Bruce, they definitely took there toll

There is a Brucie Bonus, available for every Generation
All you really needed, was the right kind of motivation
Nice to see you to see you nice, was Bruce's obligation
Life was the name of the game, in a family situation

A cuddly toy on a conveyer belt, in a prize observation
Didn't he do well all, depends on your own determination
If You Play Your Cards Right, Dollies Dealing a sensation
You don't get anything for a pair, maybe its infatuation

You can freeze but you cant stick, all dealt in isolation
Do you want to bet on it, was a gambling invitation
The price was always right, just use your imagination
Come on down to old Bruce, win a car and a vacation

Maybe he's a legend, with Bruce's game show graduation
A chance to host a new show, a Good Game realization
What's on the board miss ford, moving on to a new creation
It turned camp when they shut that door, and hired Larry Grayson

What was it with Bruce Forsyth, he was far too keen
He monopolised the hosting, on the game show scene
Seizing every opportunity, ever since he was fourteen
Just like Command and Conqueror, on the TV screen
He took on all the game shows, maybe he's just mean
But I cant help but to wander, where else has he been?

With all of his catchphrases, and a chin that was obscene
A wig that was like shredded wheat, it never should be seen
I don't know if I'm being harsh, it maybe his routine
And its all in his makeup, and part of Bruce's gene
Perhaps he liked the studio, and had too much caffeine
Along with the all dodgy food, in the BBC canteen

Now Challenge screens the game shows, but there all so ******* old
We've already seen all these games, they've already all been sold
I do not mean to sound too flippant, but why wont you be told
Your sending your viewers up the wall, and your audiences cold
Now let me state what's obvious, I hope I am not too bold
We don't want all these rehashed games, there hardly TV gold

Thursday morning and I board
the Preston train, a dumpy DMU,
but less of a cattle-truck today.

Over the bridge or beneath
lines to Platform 5 to wait:
Branson's Scarlet Pendolino
will glide in soon bound
for Birmingham - wonder
who I shall meet and share
travelling moments with ?

At the caverns of New Street
I must wend to Moor Street
and a Chilterns train trundling
me south for Warwick's 1,100th.
birthday weekend and 100 years
since trains of Lancashire PALS
cattle-trucked themselves to
Flanders fields never to return.

(c) C J Heyworth June 2014

Brian the cool vinnies bloke


you see brian allan was looking for something to do, to get him from being street trash

and a very nice lady named rowena said why don’t you work for vinnies, and brian said why not

and the next day, he was given an interview with helen, who was the boss at vinnies, and

she thought it would be great to have someone to do the bins and vacuum the floor before the start

and after 4 weeks of being there, brian thought he would like to be santa claus, and had to make uo

a proper reason for doing it, so brian said, i like the idea of giving the kids, who hate shopping with parents

a treat and helen thought she will make gingerbread men, to tickle the childs taste buds a lot,but helen was

in a bind, because i haven’t got a beard and she suggested i spray paint my real beard, but my parents were against that

because it would go against everything that santa stood for, but brian got angry with his parents and told them

that if they spray painted his beard, there will be no smart alek of a kid to pull his beard off, and as brian said that

his father yelled out, THAT’S ENOUGH, thinking i cared nothing about the kids of this city but that offended brian a lot

and made him hit his father, and this got brian really hyped up on being the best santa claus in canberra, and then

when brian explained to helen that it was causing a stir with the family to spray paint the beard, helen decided to

get a fake beard for me to use, and on the first day i played santa, i offered some of the adults gingerbread men

and they said, save them for the kids, and one little girl, who had the same resemblance to my eldest niece, said

i was a fake santa, and the santa at the mall was more real than i was, and some of the vinnies ladies brought their

own grandchildren in to get their gift from santa and i did my first year of santa, despite some smart a lek of a kid

attemptng to pull my beard off, but i was too smart for him, and after christmas was over packed my santa suit away for the first time

and then i met david who did the shoes, and i found him very good to talk too, you see i said when he dies he will be the

shoe shine man in heaven, but he sounded like he hated the idea, and he liked to joke around with stephen and mable and

i vacuumed the floor and then went outside to empty the clothing bin, and i did this all the time, ya know every day, and i had ken and brian

to help me, but brian thought it would be cool to bang on the clothing bin, while i was still in it and i told helen and she said

you should speak up for yourself, because i seem to let people walk all over me, and really i can’t be bullied by this so called brian

character, and then i started something new, you see i thought, it would be nice to to cook lunches 3 days a week at the new mental health

building, called the rainbow and i learnt how to do creative writing as well as meeting the messiah and a man named barry, who was a

really cool poet, sort of reminded me of my father, mainly because of his poem sounding like banjo patterson and henry lawson, and barry

was a lover of fitzroy, and supported the brisbane lions afl club, and i went to the club i do the bbq for, to watch the game with him and

he left before the end of the match and, i continued to go about my merry way, cooking meals at the rainbow and going on trips with the rainbow

having sing-a=longs and one man, warwick, swam 45 km at once and helen got a fire engine and i sat in it, and a star canberra raiders star

came to vinnies and signed a ball for me and my second year of santa claus went well also, i wrote fly burgers also that year, which was

funny and when i read it out, everyone was laughing along with it and they clapped it, and i read out the fact i missed scott macdonald also

and i went to queensland that year also, and when i got in my santa suit, i was visioning i will tell the kids i am an australian santa and instead of

living on the north pole, i lived right here in canberra but my parents who were strict on keeping kids imaginations flowing, hated me disillusioning

the kids minds, you see here is a poem about the aussie santa

ya see g’day mate i am the real santa

i don’t live at the north pole

i live in canberra australia, ya know the hot place, around christmas day

ya see ya know christmas is great as i do my gigs at vinnies

and as a treat i give out gingerbread men and lollies

you see christmas is fun for all ages dudes, yeah it’s fun oh yeah that’s right mate

i hope you don’t do ya santa gig way to ****** late


you see i thought i was given this gig, to bring the cool into santa

and one year i was doing my gig with an orange soda

who loves orange soda, i love orange soda

is it true, oh yeah it’s true ooh ooh ooh oh yeah

and in the following year, i was feeling fine, and my psychiatrist reduced my medication and that pushed me straight to the psych ward, where i thought

i died, and the psych ward was the gate to heaven and that ended the cool vinnies kid reign but i came back and i was more interested talking with david

and doing santa claus and that year i was checking tapes, but that only lasted 5 months, because there were getting more tapes coming in, i couldn’t keep it up

and santa was the thing, and because i was a good worker, suddenly everyone wanted me, but that was because of my manly charm, and helen left and glenn

came in and he had this little jingle, brian brian brian everything is fine, brian brian brian he’s a friend of mine brian brian brian makes the carpet shine?

you see his name is brian brian brian, and glenn sang that song to me every time i did the vacuuming at the shop and then after a few more santa gigs, glenn left and

paul s came in after vinnies had no boss, but i was still santa claus there and paul s was the official photographer for my santa claus gig, and that made me feel cool

and now, i am not santa anymore, but i really enjoyed the attention.

They. Whomever They are have a weapon aimed at the back of my neck, its warm, unsettling even. Reminds me of when I, along with many others, witnessed the ****** of Dean Warwick when he was giving a presentation at a conspiracy conference back in 2006 (link will be included at the End of this Chapter).

Yes. The Narrator is here dear reader, just for you. My mother isn't here though. Or maybe she is. Could be she is everywhere and nowhere. Are we even here ? We believe we are here - but in the middle of belief is a LIE (a John Trudell observation). This. THIS. May be a ******* dream, OR should that read NIGHTMARE.

I spoke about my mother in the introduction. I still have issues. Guess you can tell huh !

I Am the Narrator. I narrate. NARRATE. YOU read and make of these words what you will. But choose very carefully what drawer you place these words in.

I hear music. Can you hear it dear reader ? A fusion of  jazz and metal. Nice. What ! You can't ! Are you ******* deaf ? Have you not attuned into our comfy little twilight zone with fluffy pink sheep ? Can you not see the pervy creepy priest nailed to his crucifix made from shrapnel ? And no ! I am not Jesus ******* Christ. Their never was a Jesus ******* Christ. And the same goes for GOD ! Its a mind **** - religion. It is a toxic disease with a twist and a tease. Heaven and hell, trick or treat. NEAT.

I Am. CONSCIOUSNESS.
I AM.
Consciousness.
To deny that I AM CONSCIOUSNESS I have to be HERE. THERE. EVERYWHERE. NOWHERE.

What a rambling rumble of trash, I the Narrator spews forth; and yet, yes and YET - if you are OPEN to what is being written you will remain none the wiser. Maybe these written words should carry a public health warning.

I, the Narrator do not bind myself up in what is labeled POLITICAL CORRECTNESS. NO ! Why should I ? I am the Narrator, and you - YES YOU - are the reader, my reader. Until you bail out. Bankers always get BAILED out because we - WE are too ******* timid to say NO !

The suits
preen themselves
climaxing in front of mirrors
on a daily basis
the suits
falsely crown themselves
and think they are so ******* cute

BUT. We let them. The politicians. The bankers. The priests. The MAFIA of our SOULS(credit to Osho for that one).

And so. Its TIME. No it isn't. Its a ******* DREAM, but sadly more of a NIGHTMARE. But WE can CHANGE this. THIS. Yes we can. Don't believe we can - DO WE CAN. No more whining, unlike The Shining with here's Johnny.

Once upon a time
a circle gave birth
to a line
and we all
rubbed it out.

Well folks I, the Narrator has decided to bring an end. END. To CHAPTER 1.

Thank you most sincerely for reading these words. Many more will follow, and there will be casualties. However, as this is a DREAM *** NIGHTMARE, its all MAKE beLIEve. Who ******* cares ?

I, the Narrator, is smoking a **** good cigar. Until CHAPTER 2, do sleep well.


Lenny Gazbowski(c)2015

Dionne Warwick was singing
you’ll never get to Heaven
if you break my heart

over the small white
transistor radio
under the covers

of the bed after
having made love
to your girlfriend

and you both snuggled there
she running a finger
down your spine

and you kissing
one of her small *******
and the transistor crackled

and the voice on the radio
went in and out of tune
and you said

hush Sweetie Pie
or the others
will hear you

and she put a hand
over her mouth
to stifle the giggles

and the smell of lilac
and sweating bodies
filled your nose

and the singing
made you sway
and you sensed

the flesh warm
and sweet
beneath you

and you listened
for the sound of others
maybe along the hall

or moving in their sleep
and her lips
kissed your ear

and her tongue
reached right in
and you thought that

paradise
that music
the warm flesh

the kisses
and her tongue
easing itself

in and out
of your ear
and the moon lit up

in the corner
of the window
bright and angel like

over the top
smiling glow
and you and she

in the bed
and you opened  
your eyes

and you were alone
it had all been
a dream in your head.

Oil on canvas c.1926*

I suppose the catalogue tells all
about this painting on the wall.
It had pride of place
in some private collection.
Now, shielded by an electronic guard,
deemed precious, it’s unusual and large;
an early work, when (she said)  ‘I was
full of painting those around me’.

Here they are, my Warwicks:
Joe, Enid, baby Paul
and just in the corner
Auntie Liz.

They are substantial folk
these Warwicks, and have
eaten here a substantial tea.
The firelight’s purple shadows
make a mask of Joe’s wind-scoured face,
and next to the milk jug, look,
his great wedge of fingers lie at rest.
Enid, softly centred in woollen cream,
a wide-eyed Paul on her wifely knee,
seems to gaze beyond her motherhood,
to Northrigg Hill and a setting sun.
There is a general daze of repose;
the meal is over and we are replete with tea.
Lizzie contemplates the washing up.

The artist sits across the table,
rests her sketchbook
on the starched, white cloth,
and with a few firm strokes
collects this family’s shapes and forms
as I do now across the electronic guard
to secure a memory sketch  as
no photography's allowed.

swearing oaths
boiling in the urn AH
WHAT'S THIS BLUE
**** Warwick man dies
crossing highway
his grocery cart
full of
whipped cream cans and cereal boxes
and a tattered baby's quilt

In the "Warwick Arms".


There's a girl wearing fake fur

of yesteryear's youth, weighing

out sexiness in the number

of beers she can afford.

How much oblivion

an unimaginative mind can take

is equal to the power of

a beached whale

drawing it's last breath.

The Russian wipes his moustache

turns around & smirks

that she's somewhat

under-dressed for the long winter.



Going to Japan.



Pink rain:

I could walk through it,

sweet-wrapped.

And the rice-blank  past

would be ample weight in my hand.

Like that of roses, remembered.

In a Murakami bar,

octopi would reach out

& dangle questions.

As a thousand pair of eyes

ask me to give the lesson

no-one ever taught me.

That they alone know.

That only pink rain understands.

There's a Route 22 near you.
A licorice asphalt road,
Twisting as opposing currents of time,
With anticipation and apprehension,
From home, to unknowns,
From comfort to expectations.
A rural ribbon of signage,
And milestones.

I traveled mine yesterday,
In an overdue Spring,
From Melrose to Bright's Grove.
I writhe and bend with its winding,
Former times arise like heat waves;
Mirage puddles flood my head,
Always just out of reach.

I recalled hitchhiking through Warwick,
As I backtrack,
And almost stop
For one today on the curve
Where they sell the garden gnomes.
I once looked wryly at them
When waiting across the road.

Sprawling upright over the northern landscape,
Towards the Co-ops of Arkona,
And the beer store in Thedford,
Wind farms thrive like techno giants,
In a mutant Utopian world.

****** Mary's red sign no longer hangs
Outside the white house in Lobo,
Where she could bring you in touch
With your dead.
Poplar Hill's trees no longer snow in the summer,
The water wheels are seized, barns are exposed.
The lofts collapsed.

I had to stop near a culvert, to listen to the sound of run-off,
The melt reflecting the transition under the sun,
Converging at Black Creek, Pulse Creek, or Cow Creek,
Carrying forward to the St. Clair River and Lake Huron,
Then onward and back.

Weathered iron fences enclose pioneer graves;
Settlers who cleared the dense Lambton forests,
And made the first ruts along my way,
With wagonfuls of backache.
I know well how you fared on our Route.

By: Cedric McClester

Back to the beginning
I mentally retreat
To a city called Boston
40 Warwick Street
Some memories are bitter
Some were sweet
But they equal out
On my balance sheet

Occasionally
When I chose to talk
About summers in Boston
And Winters in New York
I remember being at
My great-grandmother’s knee
In Boston, Mass
She was Granny to me

See that’s how I spent
My formative years
Between New York and Boston
Steady switching gears
A product of both cities
Or so it appears
Back when television sets
Had rabbit ears

Grammer school in New York
High school in Boston
Are some of the things
That my mind gets lost in
There’s more I could tell
About What’s In-between
That I haven’t mentioned
Like what I’ve seen













Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.
















Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.

I just got home after seeing the documentary movie called the Australian dream which is about Adam Goodes who was my favourite player back in the day and I saw that he was a victim of racial bullyism which was discraceful I never knew that, that kind of racism exists in this modern times and I learnt that people weren’t looking at it as being racist but they were being racist and those people need to be taught a lesson in being moral, I never watched the footy show afl much because it was boring but Sam Newman needs to be taught a big lesson in racism because what he did was racist and Adam Goodes was just sticking up for himself because these words really hurt him, I just remember Goodesy for the great player he is, and I continued to support him as he really won the match for Sydney swans and people shouldn’t hate him because he is black because nobody booed tony Lockett and Warwick capper even if they had weird ways as well Lockett used to nudge a bit and capper used to wear short shorts and they supported them and I em not against these players though I just think it is a bit low to yell out racial words to Goodes I think the country that we live in should honour aborigines after all they are the founders of our land long before captain cook came to invade it
I thought Australian dream was great and I recommend it for anyone who wants to honour the founders of our land and the greatest player Sydney swans ever had, I think it was cool that he got Australian of the year and in fact I drew a picture of him as Australian of the year and he won two Brownlow medals and he was the best player around I remember him taking his marks and scoring goals what a legend of the game he was
I do recommend Australian dream to anyone who wants to stop being racist and to others who really likes goodesy like me, I am not the only one who had him as my favourite player
I am totally sure of that
Sydney Sydney Sydney oi oi oi
On ya goodsey

ten years ago I was thin.
I remember the lover I
met ten years before then.
ten years later was nowhere
to be seen. Five years later
had yet to happen. I can
remember the freezing winter
of 1996.  It was just like yester
day.  I miss the creamy cotton
futon tucked quietly in my private
curtained alcove entryway, all sheets
calmly milky, my studio littered
by inspiration found outside along
Warwick Street. Life was easy,
I'd only loved one man for real. He'd
loved me just enough to leave
me in tact. Ten years later from
ten years from that, I've been left
twice, and left with one who stays.
All the while wanting the man
meant for God and an angel.

Dust Springfield's music in the background,
playing a cool smoothing tune.
Which speaks directly about us.
You don't have to say you love.
Simply, because you can.

And if you wants to stay.
Then I accept your decision.

Petula Clark, soon is heard explaining,
don't sleep in the subway.
Or the pouring rain.
Once, where I have been before?
I don't wants to go again.

Then, we hear Dee Dee Warwick proclaiming,
I'm gonna make you love me.
Which brings to our face a happy feeling.

And soon her sister Dione Warwick's comes on too.
With, I say a little prayer for you.
A expressive emotion we do concerning each other nightly.

With all these ladies on the compact disc.
I'm getting this impression you're trying to tell me something.

Especially, when I hear Aretha Franklin's with,
I've never loved a man the way I love you.

I can only say.
What Marvin Gaye said decades ago.
If this world was mine.
I would also place at your feet.
You been more then good to me.
You been the love I needed.
I guess our life is a song.

(Try singing this poem to Dionne Warwick's version of "Alfie," by Burt Bacharach and Hal David.)

Somehow you went wrong, Lindsey.°
Don't you feel like the president's chump?
Don't you feel he's wrong, stringing you along, Lindsey?
Strange things happen when you deal with Trump.
You once said he was unfit,
And if he was so unfit, Lindsey,
Then what happened to make him the man?
There can be no doubt what this is about, Lindsey.
How did a foe become his biggest fan?
I guess it doesn't matter if you've got no pride, Lindsey.
How can you live with yourself?
Can it be that Putin has some dirt on you, too,
That you want to hide, Lindsey?
Your odd behavior baffles us, Lindsey.
Wait till you're thrown under the bus. You will be, Lindsey.
If a fool is what you want to be,
Say good-bye to dignity, Lindsey.
Lindsey…

-by Bob B (10-28-19)

°Lindsey Graham, Senator from South Carolina

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YidCdaLPPR8

Having met Julie
at Victoria railway station
and travelled by tube
to Charing Cross Road

you sneaked
into Dobell's
jazz record shop
and listened

to some Coltrane
in the small record booth
up close
she having got out

of the hospital
for the day
although
the drug withdrawal

was getting her tight
her short skirt
was riding high
as she sat there

squashed up
near to you
her eyes closing
and opening

her hands
in prayer mode
in her lap
can we go now?

she said
I need a drink
and smoke
so you left the booth

giving the guy
back the Coltrane
record sleeve
and left the shop

taking it on foot
to the café
and ordering
two coffees

and she took out
her smokes and lit up
and she gave
you one too

and she talked
of how her parents
hadn't visited
and how

the whole show
at the hospital
was getting her
on the edge

and you sat
watching her
the dark hair
drawn back

with a black ribbon
the red
high necked jumper
the short black skirt

her eyes bright
as stars
her lips making
a large O

then closing up
and going
like a narrow slit
you remember

that quickie
we had
in that small cupboard?
she said

those brooms
and boxes
and then she smiled
and you smiled too

that was my last time
she said
last time I had it
she said louder

she took a drag
of her smoke
and sat silent
watching the smoke

rise before her eyes
Warwick’s worried
about you
you said

is he now
she said sarcastically
well he can go pray
to his God

for me then
she said
sitting back
in the seat

yes you thought
the ***
had been good
but quick

unexpected
out of the blue
she in her night gown
(and little else)

and in the background
the music playing
from the radio
some Beatles' song

along the hospital ward
what did you think
of the Coltrane album?
you said

breaking the silence
in the café
bored my **** off
she said

I’ll get it anyway
you replied
and she looked out
the window darkly

as if someone
had fingered her
slowly
then died.

Captured in the psych ward



You see the police have a difficult case in mind when one of the boys who stole lunch money from every kid at the TAFR he was going to and when this disabled man named Johnny cane to the school he said no, you get away from me, I ain't giving you my lunch and he said well
If you don't give me your lunch money I will bash you up and buddy I am capable if killing you. So mate you better be careful and the police couldn't look after him after the disabled man 's parents rang the police to have him arrested and
He is known as Robert pester and everything went well untill he was prison for two days and couldn't handle it and from that moment he said he was Warwick capper and the police at first thought that he is just being a loser and just said, get into
You cell and get to bed and events after 3 more days of him saying he was Warwick capper, he was sent to Ron at the Melbourne hospital HDU
And when Ron picked him up from the lock up after having a coffee at Fred's cafe and taking about that great night club party last Saturday night  and thru shared some great stories of past parties and Ron remembered the party in 1990 when concrete blonde was playing loud and really dampening the place a bit
And then it was Friday night and that night Sydney swans was on the television and Charlie wanted to watch so you think you can dance and a big fist fight broke out and
Ron had to try and break them up
And then Ron said, nobody is watching TV tonight and after Charlie
Went to bed and Robert through a temper tantrum which forced to put him straight into isolation and he will have his own TV and the others don't have to deal with him and Ron made that happen and then went around giving the medications out
And clocked off and went to Fred's cafe and had some dinner of a hamburger and chips and a coke and then bought a bottle of coke and watched the end of the footy on TV and as usual fell asleep on the couch


Sent from my iPhone

She once was a girl growing up in Chandlers Ford
Meanwhile it was in Warwick that he matured
Years later once they had both reached an age
They each moved to Nottingham where loves’ foundations were laid
There they worked on the same degree
And together went the same nightclub weekly
Where he let it known to him she were pretty
So became special place this for them; Rock City

It was just the beginning of what fun they would share
Gigs and festivals they’d embrace as a pair
Always enjoying most the Maccabees
Music was their making of happy memories
Until lifes’ professional path forced them astray
Seeds of love planted, but not together everyday
Weekends back and forth as a long distance lover
The wait would be worth it once back with one another

Some time passed and now both secure in a job
They felt a shared future they were sure of
So in each other they would invest
Henley-on-Thames they went to build a nest
Where they welcomed the new addition of pets
A pair of rabbits who they’ll never forget
For they’re the first lives together cared for
Which has been a success so let’s hope for more!

Now content and secure
Yet with still room for more
They hoped for a place to call their own
So in Wargrave they brought their first home
And filled it with the things that they shared
More than ever they felt together paired
True commitment awaited just one more thing
He took her to Brighton to present a ring

This brings us now to here today
Two families meet at Malmesbury; their halfway
And with friends here all to celebrate
The love that Tom and Hana have made
We witness them begin their next phase in life
The exciting togetherness of man and wife
A relationship they should wear with pride
We all know for him she is the perfect bride

Officially now linked at the heart
June 22nd is where these Hutchinsons start
Adventure commencing with African Safari
And relaxing beach for honeymoon
A pleasure that will pass all too soon
But from there they will live in one guarantee
Wherever next will be together
As they are most happily

Tobacco, the first intoxicant wrapping me in a gauze of sultry skip days,
Wine, beer, swimming pools with bikinis, suntans, tropicana oil,
Kansas heat on concrete. Lawrence, Ks, KU, art and black, red ochre conti crayons,

Life drawings of nudes on platforms, fat, poor,
glamorous models, how i wanted to be one of them
stripping myself in front of you all,
my young beautiful naked body
you'll never see that again.

Fresh grass and lemonade,
Volvos driving across our country
55mph...80 was faster.

One night stands
led to terror.

Hurting men forever.

Barns and Nobels stealing book
coffee was new
young at 25.

Walking the street in Kansas City,
Warwick street with it's three story walk up
trimmed colonial white
1995.

Tea, herbs, kale with sesame,
Health food shops on corners
young women of 23 starting their biz.
We could do it our own way back then.

Abortion, adoption, college graduation,
law school, med school, drop out,
write.

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
    To do our country loss; and if to live
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
    God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires:

    But if it be a sin to covet honour,
    I am the most offending soul alive.
    No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
    God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour

    As one man more, methinks, would share from me
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

    Let him depart; his passport shall be made
    And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
    We would not die in that man’s company
    That fears his fellowship to die with us.

    This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
    And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

    He that shall live this day, and see old age,
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
    And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian:’
    Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,

    And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
    Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
    But he’ll remember with advantages
    What feats he did that day: then shall our names

    Familiar in his mouth as household words:
    Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
    Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,

    This story shall the good man teach his son;
    And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
    From this day to the ending of the world,
    But we in it shall be remembered;

    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
    For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
    Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his condition:

    And gentlemen in England now abed
    Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Warwick Avenue for Little Venice

This way for everything else

Madness and a little menace

Leaves our senses bent.


Now pick a number any number

Don’t tell me what it is

I’ll dig inside your mind to find

That number don’t exist

What I found far more profound

Something that I miss

Was clear as day behind your eyes

The night we shared a kiss.


No regrets or mental debts

In my house by the way

Leaving just one thing

Left for me to say.....

Sunday morning,
Toast, coffee and strawberries
Sliced in half.

The music surrounds,
Dionne Warwick
Why do you have to be a heart breaker?

I'm remembering, wandering.
There were good times.
Just not enough.

Sunny day
that hospital
visiting day
she outside

in a chair
smoking a cigarette
I sat  in a chair
next to her

wouldn't
let me out
she said
wanted to meet you

in London
but the docs
put their spoke
in the wheel

and the parents
are none too happy
about it
means

they have
to visit me
rather than I
go to them

I said nothing
let her speak on
get it out
of her system

she had this
dressing gown on
her hair tied back
in an untidy bun

bright red slippers
on her feet
if I didn't have
these cigarettes

I’d go completely
over the wall
with the other
fruit cakes in here

she said
they said
you were here
at the hall

I said
I went there first
Warwick said
you were here

bought you these
and I gave her
a pack of smokes
and a small box

of chocolates
she took the gifts
with her free hand
and placed them

beside her
on the grass
God you are good
to me

if we were in the City
I’d repay you
she said
no need

I said
given out of love
not lust
she smiled

guess so
she said
they keep
that small cupboard

locked now
she said
after that time
we had it off

in there
she said
I looked back
towards

the hospital ward
a few yards away
too small anyway
I said

she inhaled slow
on the cigarette
her eyes half closing
due to the smoke

do you really get
that church
tambourine
banging thing?

she asked
the essence yes
I said
not necessarily

the trappings
she stared at me
her free hand
in her lap

the other holding
the cigarette
to one side
I suppose people

need to believe
something
in this **** circus
of a world

she said
guess so
I said
she looked down

towards the road
some fifty yards away
where traffic
moved slowly by

and as she moved
she crossed her legs
a glimpse of thigh
caught my weary eye.

THE TALK OF THE TUDOR WORLD

It is the talk of
the Tudor World.

But  - the Hello Magazine
Time Machine

has managed to gatecrash
the "Princelye Pleasures

of the Queens
Majesty

and her Sommery
Progress."

It is the July
of 1575.

Trump wanted to go
but we said: "NO!"

He's messed up our Future
don't want him to mess up this Past.

Took a hairy Irish
poet instead.

So here we be
at Killing Worth Castle

Warwick Sheer, where
"All loves meet...

...to create one soul!"
as Mr. Decker has it.

Leicester and Eliza
dance the Volta

with lewd look
in eye.

The paparazzi
wet themselves!

The Queen deports
her self "in full sight!"

The famous fountain
spurting with "such vehemency!"

as to "moysten"
we time travellers

"...from top to toe!"

Already our passions
enflamed by carved erotica.

Such "rich and hard
white Marbl."

Oh that naughty Ovid
and his wicked tales.

The great fireworks
reflected in Eliza's eye.

Her Majesty skips
and dances high.

Leicester's hand
beneath her bust

takes her and turns her
with the lifting ******

of his mighty thigh
against the ******'s Royal backside.

Well...we never!

"Oh!" and ". . .ooooh!"
the Queen cries.

Sweet sweat trickles
through her make-up.

Three weeks of wooing
a Queen's hand

although it is rumoured he has
had  much more than that!

The wondrous artificial lake
mirrors the falling sky.

Scotland and Ireland
are in uproar.

Eliza's  "pirates"
attacking Spanish silver convoys.

Her procrastinating over Mary's fate
her famous "answerless answers."

Screams from the Tower.
Another turn of the rack.

Time to be gone
methinks!

Set the controls
for 2001.