A Pavement's Dream

In Highfields the shit flows free,

Dogs allowed to dump on me.

My slabs are loose and out of true,

People trip and turn the air blue.

My flags are loose so when it rains,

Folk step on them and splash their legs;

The dirty water clothing stains,

They think this neighbourhood's the dregs.

If I were laid in a posher 'hood,

Then things could really be quite good.

My slabs would be aligned so true

And folk would clean their doggies' poo.

To the Middle Classes

It's Christmas time, the turkeys said.

What has Santa in mind for us?

Not knowing they would soon be dead.

Santa, red in coat and Claus,

Would kill them with no fuss.

Why did they all vote for him?

On what did they think the rich would dine?

He spoke so well, so tall and slim,

Decked out in red he looked so fine.

Before you laugh at these birds' stories,

I ask you this:

Did you not vote for the bloody Tories?

Well, somebody must have done.

Come on, own up!

For Roland, who put the idea in my head, where it seems to have lodged. 
The problem with the middle classes, is they identify with the rich, who see them as just a slightly fatter turkey.

To Robert Frost

What a good wordsmith you are,
Best poet of them all by far.

I wish I had your fluent ease,

And could create fine rhymes that please.

No airy-fairy words from you,

Your writing is clear, deft and true.

Yet all your work is drawn from life,

The light of reason shining through.

Your poems have a subtle edge,

And hint at hidden meanings; 
I sense you lived out on a ledge,
Perhaps had darkish dreamings.

I've added an extra verse in the middle of this. Am curious to know if it is an asset or not.

Getting High

Who wants to get high?

For the promise of high

Contains a lie.

For every high

You will sink low,

So down you go;

You reap what you sow.

Sobriety's the native state

Of our flighty minds,

And yet we hate

To stay that way;

Yet trying to escape

Just does not pay.

The path to grace

For the human race

Is to just get used to it.

For Kirstie.

Why Would Anyone Want to Leave Coalville?

Or An Involuntary Journey to the West End

Or Stopping by 'The Merry Monarch' on a Snowy Evening

At Christmas I whinged

About the absence of snow;

It seems like a lifetime ago.

The snow fell all day,

On the ground thickly lay.

Getting let out at three

Didn't benefit me:

The ringroad was blocked,

Far quicker to've walked.

I tried to go round,

Take my chances in town.

No better luck there:-

Slower than I could bear.

Into town cars trickled slow,
But outward bound, 'twas just no go.
I saw fat coppers trudge on foot,

But clearly they didn't give a hoot:-

Why would anyone want to leave Coalville?

So then I turned and went back,

Hoping I'd find a crack

In the Whitwick blockade.

It was jammed on the hill,

Some fool'd had a spill,

And smashed up his car.

He hadn't got far

At precipitous speed,

Paying weather no heed.

Two hours to Copt Oak:

It's no longer a joke

Doing one mile an hour.

The Leicester Road's white,

A grim daunting sight,

Which makes my heart sink.

But the motorway flows!

So at last off I go,

Through the slush and the snow.

In Leicester quite soon,

It seems like a boon,

But the city's gridlocked:

My efforts seem mocked.

The main road is jammed,

Which serves as a goad

To try the Fosse Road.

At first it's quite fast,

But that doesn't last.

I go in the pub for a piss,

But when I leave the cludge

There's nothing I've missed:

The cars have not budged.

Time for fish and chips.

Well, so much for brevity. Cludge is a Scotch word for toilet.  
After I left the fish and chip shop, traffic was moving, albeit slowly, so I carried on. The slush began to freeze. This was the most unpleasant part of all. We were creeping forward, but every time you started again, the car would fish-tail on the frozen slush. With parked cars only a foot away, it was quite concerning.

 
The cause of the congestion in Coalville was crashes.
In Leicester, it was more complex:
1) crashes
2) flyovers on the inner ring road too steep
3) people not respecting yellow box junctions
4) more people than usual using the motorway (as it was gritted), hence the access road logjammed.
5) rush hour traffic critical at the best of times
6) timid drivers not moving off when it was their turn.

Leicester had about two inches of snow. God knows what it will be like if it ever really snows.
It took me five-and-a-half hours to complete a half-hour journey.

Also inspired by the recent weather.

Brevity is the Soul of Wit

This is especially true of poetry, where length seems to dilute rather than enhance. Poetry seems to benefit from a special intensity, best maintained by not wittering on. Here's what Lao-Tzu had to say:

Spare words: nature's way.

Violent winds do not blow all morning.
Sudden rain cannot pour all day.
What causes these things?
Heaven and Earth.

If Heaven and Earth do not blow and pour for long,
How much less should humans? 

The above is a quote from the excellent translation of Tao Te Ching by Stephen Aldiss and Stanley Lombardo, published by Hackett, ISBN 0-87220-232-1

Severe Weather Warning

The Met boys can't stop crying wolf,

They feel they must fill us with dread.

Were weather bad as they predict

We all should very soon be dead.

“A horrid storm!” their fearful cry,

“The danger builds in Norway's sky.”

“Minus fourteen!” the headline screams,

“It's forecast we are going to freeze,

The snow will rise above our heads!”

But all is not quite as it seems.

When their pants they've ceased to shit

They then are likely to admit:

“It looks like it might snow - a bit.”

A TV Yank Experience

They wriggle, they writhe

They flash their thighs

To try to make us hot inside.

They kick, they jump, they strut their stuff,

The drooling crowd can't get enough.

They twirl their pom-poms in the air

To erotic music's brassy blare.

They take it to the utter max

Short of performing the actual act.

Who cares about the football players?

They're just a bunch of steroidal meatballs.