Pusty Jak Dzban

Really don't mind if you sit this one

out.

My words but a whisper -- your deafness a SHOUT.

I may make you feel but I can't make you think.

Your sperm's in the gutter -- your love's in the sink.

So you ride yourselves over the fields and

you make all your animal deals and

your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.

And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away in

the tidal destruction

the moral melee.

The elastic retreat rings the close of play as the last wave uncovers

the newfangled way.

But your new shoes are worn at the heels and

your suntan does rapidly peel and

your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.

And the love that I feel is so far away:

I'm a bad dream that I just had today -- and you

shake your head and

say it's a shame.

Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.

Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.

Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.

See there! A son is born -- and we pronounce him fit to fight.

There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.

We'll

make a man of him

put him to trade

teach him

to play Monopoly and

to sing in the rain.

The Poet and the painter casting shadows on the water --

as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.

The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other --

as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.

The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling --

but the master of the house is far away.

The horses stamping -- their warm breath clouding

in the sharp and frosty morning of the day.

And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.

And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.

Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.

The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river

where the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea:

the builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose

and contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need.

The young men of the household have

all gone into service and

are not to be expected for a year.

The innocent young master -- thoughts moving ever faster --

has formed the plan to change the man he seems.

And the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword.

And the oldest of the family is moving with authority.

Coming from across the sea, he challenges the son who puts him to the run.

What do you do when

the old man's gone -- do you want to be him? And

your real self sings the song.

Do you want to free him?

No one to help you get up steam --

and the whirlpool turns you `way off-beam.

LATER.

I've come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways.

My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.

So come on all you criminals!

I've got to put you straight just like I did with my old man --

twenty years too late.

Your bread and water's going cold.

Your hair is too short and neat.

I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.

You curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone -- you meet the stares.

You're unaware that your doings aren't done.

And you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be.

But how are we supposed to see where we should run?

I see you shuffle in the courtroom with

your rings upon your fingers and

your downy little sidies and

your silver-buckle shoes.

Playing at the hard case, you follow the example of the comic-paper idol

who lets you bend the rules.

So!

Come on ye childhood heroes!

Won't you rise up from the pages of your comic-books

your super crooks

and show us all the way.

Well! Make your will and testament. Won't you?

Join your local government.

We'll have Superman for president

let Robin save the day.

You put your bet on number one and it comes up every time.

The other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line.

And so you finally ask yourself just how big you are --

and take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.

And you wonder who to call on.

So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?

And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through?

They're all resting down in Cornwall --

writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition

of the Boy Scout Manual.

LATER.

See there! A man born -- and we pronounce him fit for peace.

There's a load lifted from his shoulders with the discovery of his disease.

We'll

take the child from him

put it to the test

teach it

to be a wise man

how to fool the rest.

QUOTE

We will be geared to the average rather than the exceptional

God is an overwhelming responsibility

we walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons

cats are on the upgrade

upgrade? Hipgrave. Oh, Mac.

LATER

In the clear white circles of morning wonder,

I take my place with the lord of the hills.

And the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured (in neat little rows)

sporting canvas frills.

With their jock-straps pinching, they slouch to attention,

while queueing for sarnies at the office canteen.

Saying -- how's your granny and

good old Ernie: he coughed up a tenner on a premium bond win.

The legends (worded in the ancient tribal hymn) lie cradled

in the seagull's call.

And all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.

The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun,

and signal for the crack of dawn.

Light the sun.

Do you believe in the day?

Do you?

Believe in the day! The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun.

Soft Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one.

Do you believe in the day?

The fading hero has returned to the night -- and fully pregnant with the day,

wise men endorse the poet's sight.

Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day!

Let me tell you the tales of your life of

your love and the cut of the knife

the tireless oppression

the wisdom instilled

the desire to kill or be killed.

Let me sing of the losers who lie in the street as the last bus goes by.

The pavements ar empty: the gutters run red --

while the fool

toasts his god in the sky.

So come all ye young men who are building castles!

Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus.

Mark the precise nature of your

fear.

Let me help you pick up your dead as the sins of the father are fed

with

the blood of the fools and

the thoughts of the wise and

from the pan under your bed.

Let me make you a present of song as

the wise man breaks wind and is gone while

the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose and

the nursery rhyme winds along.

So! Come all ye young men who are building castles!

Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus.

Mark the precise nature of your fear.

See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you

and the hour of judgement draweth near.

Would you be

the fool stood in his suit of armour or

the wiser man who rushes clear.

So! Come on ye childhood heroes!

Won't your rise up from the pages of your comic-books

your super-crooks and

show us all the way.

Well! Make your will and testament.

Won't you? Join your local government.

We'll have Superman for president

let Robin save the day.

So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?

And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through?

They're all resting down in Cornwall -- writing up their memoirs

for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual.

OF COURSE

So you ride yourselves over the fields and

you make all your animal deals and

your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.