Who cares for the carer When they're feeling low When their energy's zapped And their flow's on go slow When smiles hide their tears And laughter their pain When they long for the norm And they're drooping and drained When they won't show they're weary And starting to wilt 'Cos the feelings they're feeling Are each edged with guilt As they worry their loved one Might think they're a burden When the truth is the carer Is hurt at their hurtin' And wishes their suffering Was transferred to them So their loved one was happy And healthy again And despite carers bones Being aching and strained They'd do all they're doing Again and again For the love of their loved one Knowing they'd do likewise THAT'S who cares for the carer Through their own caring eyes
By my colloquialistic quip I'm a slave to censorship Must be careful when I joke Can't have you sensitive hypocrites Complaining I'm having a poke! I'm a slave to censorship And the social media prudes Reporting ART on Facebook For 'containing semi-nudes!' I'm a slave to censorship Mustn't voice my personal views Even though we all know You feel the same way too! I'm a slave to censorship In a world of claim and compensation In case you rush me off to court For causing aggravation I'm a slave to censorship In a world that's too PC But then again who gives a fuck? Most certainly not me!
Through the strained, tumbling, debris The situation commands. Flakes of fallen, sodden tissues overloaded
With evidence of their grief
Cling to the black costumes of the cast Each flake awaiting the applause of its audience To be provided by the obligatory mumbling Of others condolences And by the sombre passing of hastily scribbled Sympathy cards. Bravo! Bravo! Such a moving production Surely worthy of an encore? Which there will be, of course Once the players are gathered together for the last act The finale The flamboyancy of their floral tributes serving To verify and measure The earnestness of their regard For the leading lady. How touching. And how unforgivably empty, the play of it all For never in life was any appreciation delivered Never in life were tears shed in true sympathy for the now deceased Never in life did any one member of the spurious troupe care to listen Nor choose to 'hear' the real, desperate reply to their automated question "How are you today?" Not a one. Without doubt, the only genuine tears Ever to crawl down their cheeks Are the ones spilled for themselves. No surprises there. Red
The traffic lights change
Granting permission to move forward
Allowing access to the destination
Of their journey
And with that permission
I also move on
My spirit returning
To the white silk of my temporary lodgings In the back of the hearse Where even that very silk which my waxen form rests upon Is fake A cheap, rough version of the real thing. Of no matter The ground will welcome me soon enough The ground will gain nourishment from my passing And, in due course, pass it on The ground will comfort me And at last, expose my hidden worth. I am eager to reach such contentment. Move swiftly on, driver! Let the theatre of this absurdity come to its end Far better things await me Beyond the final curtain.