Poetry on the Hoof: The (rail) road to Barra


Wind farm blade, wind farm blade,
Everything you want from a
Wind farm blade.

We’re all going on a beer hunt lads!
From hanging town, brief encounters,
To Holke hang out, submariner sheds,
We’re getting our names up in those causeway lights!


Spot the jogging bishop with a mitre on a Sunday!
We’re talking rhubarb triangle with legs to spare,
A mammoth onion off the old green road.

They’ll split the atom here Bob in the years to come,
There’ll be lock downs, sirens,
Ever Ready for us, the pervasive threat.

Heysham 1, Heysham 2
It’ll be a football score Bob
In the years to come, when we get home.

One goes down, the other goes up
Two little boys Bob, that’s what they’re like,
Seismically protected to Gas Mark 7.

But there’s no more time for:
Haff netting salmon
in the skinny dipping Lune;

No more time for:
Sticking toffee pud
Up the old girls duff.

Cos we’re heading out to Barra,
Prepping for the Somme,
And all her sail in her.

Wind farm blade, wind farm blade,
Everything you need from a
Wind farm blade.


It’s a long way to Tipperary,
A very long way indeed Bob,
You’ll be needing your khaki trousers ,
and a hat to shield you from the blaze.

Hats with fascinators fascinating,
Travel hunters hunting and
Heath and safety instructing:
Don’t forget your shorts.

Don’t forget your sun cream.
Don’t forget to write son,
We’ve got your Grand-dad round at Christmas
He’ll want to see you standing


Bloody Merseysiders, Scouse not English?
(Always kicking off in their socks and shades,
A disgrace to king and country,
Just who are they trying to kid Brian?)

Scouse lads! Manx lads!
We’re all in this together lads
Cockney lads! Toon lads!
Even Maccam lads can walk on the Kents Bank waters!

Climbing over ledges,
Diving down in gorges,
Geo-physical, geo-logical,
Geo-temporal, neo-natal.

Head line shock,
Culture block.
Road up ahead,
Detour to the Humphrey Head.

Wind farm blade, wind farm blade,
Everything you earn from a
Wind farm blade.


Grange over the sands,
Wind over the waters,
Steam over the causeway,
Fog on the time and we lose our way;
Lights up ahead and we shield our eyes
From the light on the horizon.

Don’t be daft Bob,
It’s just the moon on the river,
No need to stress, no need to sweat,
It’s just another brick in a wall.
No dark lions in the wardrobe,
No more air girls on the dole.

Ulverston oh Ulverston,
I still see your home fires burning,
I still see your water wheels turning,
I still hear your sea winds blowin’,
I still see the dark coal glowin’,
I was 21 when I left Ulverston.

Last wolf in England,
First turn on the left,
Water catches fire,
The air stops breathing,
But we dig deep down for leading lights
Tractors turning, gas flame burning, submarine yearning.

Wind farm blade, wind farm blade,
Everything you covet ‘bout a
Wind farm blade.


Cor strike a light!
Blow me down!
If ever I cross this side of town
I’m dead, I’m gone,
A shadow of my former self.

The nuclear dump,
The ever present hump,
Of the guy in the trench,
Standing doubled over the stench
Of the lads in the earth
And the girls in the air,
Waving, waving farewell, adieu, auf wiedersehen,
To their boys on a train sliding into town.

Pink Shap granite, Pink Shap granite
Archaeological dig in bullet rich sand;
Turbine, turbine,
Slicing up the seas in a frenzied fit of
Fission, fusion,
Grasping the cushion of a nuclear safety net of
Caste iron furnace, caste iron furnace,
Grenades to launch ten thousand ships to pieces.

It’s just a rumor that was spread around town
By the women and children
Soon we’ll be shipbuilding,
Well I ask you
The boy said “Dad they’re going to take me to task, but I’ll be back by Christmas”
We’re all in this together Bob,
It was like this way back when Bob,
Digging our trenches into the heat of the night.

Guiding lights in Barrow lands.
Trig towers point to trig points in the ground.
Landing lights in the estuary guide boats by.
Staging posts act as half way stops mid river.
Help us navigate this wilderness.

Wind farm blade, wind farm blade
Everything you ever loved ‘bout a
Wind farm blade.

Poetry on the Hoof: Hashtag Poems

In an age of shortening fuses, tempers, and attention spans not many of us have enough time or inclination to read much beyond the first few syllables of a poem, novel or academic treatise. See, I’ve lost you already.

The hashtag poem series acknowledges this poor state of affairs and instead of plying you with complicated verse structures or deep and meaningless syntax, offers you words or phrases which conjure up possibilities and useful generalities. The hashtag allows the reader to get the gist of something without having to work too hard to really get it. It also benefits the writer by allowing them not to have to work too hard at communicating something in a uniquely idiosyncratic way – so everyone’s a #winner.

Here’s a poem I stumbled into earlier. It’s about… well, it’s about whatever you want it to be about. That’s the beauty of the #poem. It’s called: #Backtowork


Poetry on the Hoof: Soz.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry,
I’m very, very sorry,
For the delays, the disruption, the chaos, we’ve brought
To your daily routine.

We’re sorry the tram stopped running,
We’re sorry the bus driver forgot to turn up for work,
We’re sorry the road’s been dug up over night,
We’re all sorry, sorry, very very sorry.

Sorry your tickets out of date,
Sorry your life style made you late,
Sorry you look the way you do,
Sorry your dog demanded a poo
On the high street before your very eyes,
Sorry you forgot to clean it up,
Sorry you have to listen to this.
It’s nothing to do with us, sorry.

Sorry for having to apologise.
Sorry we’ve got to listen to this.
Sorry for being sorry.
We apologise. We really do. Soz.

Crazy old Trot! (with thanks to Monty Python)

Jeremy: I wanted to be… a Crazy Old Trot!

Leaping from sect to sect, as they float through the mighty rivers of the British Labour Party… The Giant International Socialist. The SDP. The Far Right! The mighty SNP! The lofty flowering Communists! The plucky little SWP! The limping soft Tory of Aldershot! The Maidenhead Weeping Wets! The flatulent Blairite of Sedgefield! The Quercus Maximus Millibandus Edwardus!

With my best buddy by my side, we’d sing! Sing! Sing!

I’m a Crazy Trot, and I’m okay.
I sleep all night and I plot all day.

He’s a Crazy Trot, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he plots all day.

I cut down Tories. I eat my lunch.
I go to the lavatory.
On Wednesdays I go shoppin’
And have buttered scones for tea.

He cuts down Tories. He eats his lunch.
He goes to the lavatory.
On Wednesdays he goes shopping
And has buttered scones for tea.
He’s a crazy Trot, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he plots all day.

I cut down Tories. I skip and jump.
I like to press wild flowers.
I put on women’s clothing
And hang around in bars.

He cuts down Tories. He skips and jumps.
He likes to press wild flowers.
He puts on women’s clothing
And hangs around in bars?!
He’s a lumberjack, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he plots all day.

I cut down Tories. I wear high heels,
Suspendies, and a bra.
I wish I’d been a girlie,
Just like my dear Papa.

He cuts down trees. He wears high heels,
Suspendies, and a bra
He wishes he’d been a girlie
Just like his dear papa.

He’s a crazy old Trot, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he plots all day.
He’s a Crazy Old Trot, and he’s okaaaaay.
He sleeps all night and he plots all day.

Poetry on the Hoof: The Policy Police.

The Policy Police.
Monitor late shut downs,
Enumerate melts downs,
Determinate who’s in and out, what where and why.

The Policy Police.
Evaluate who’s right,
Defenestrate who’s wrong,
Celebrate nothing but the lazy well behaved.

The Policy Police.
Legislate the left side,
Navigate the right tide,
Execute state orders to an inch of their lives.

The Policy Police.
Over see poli-see,
Over look poli-do,
Hypocritic blockages to the human race.

Poetry on the Hoof: Creative Accountancy.

Creative Accountancy.
Isn’t what its cracked up to be.
They just don’t make ’em like that any more.
More’s the pity.

Creative Accountants.
Sweat spreadsheets.
Wishing they were.
Between the sheets with the guy next door.

Poetry on the Hoof: It Ain’t Over ’till It’s Over.

It ain’t over till it’s over,
It ain’t done till it’s done,
The fat lady ain’t singing yet,
She’s sat inside her tent.

It ain’t over till it’s over
It ain’t done till it’s done,
The carnival ain’t started,
The clown’s not yet farted.

It ain’t over till it’s over,
It ain’t done till it’s done,
This corpse ain’t stopped twitching yet,
Put the funeral back on hold!

So save your tears, save your whoops,
Stop living in the future,
Stop living in the past,
It’s the here and now that matters
And tomorrow’s a world away.
There’s nothing to take for granted,
Nothing to assume,
You can plan and scheme all you like

It ain’t over till it’s over,
It ain’t done till it’s done,
The fat lady ain’t singing yet:
She’s still sat inside her tent.

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