Rivet-Al-Maunder Selfish shellfish and rattlesnake cattle, Old mother hen with her pointlessly long prattle, Guffawing grey whales laid on great hay bales, And Big Brother Beaver on the back of a snail, These frivolous indigenous of Rivet-Al-Maunder, Were preparing for the, annual, city centre saunter, Which coincided with the birthday of one Sybil the Sloth, A creature with a scraping, unfathomable cough, She celebrated her survival about three times a year, Because just once, she claimed, she just couldn't bear, And the village joins in, sparing no frivolity, For birthday cake, it turns out, was a local commodity, So they whooped and they cheered, and they ate cake 'til they dropped, And rolled away home, avoiding stones lest they popped, Rolling through the door, not bothering to knock, And spending the next three months jogging around the block.

Baa Baa Racially Nondescript Sheep Baa baa racially nondescript sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full sir, But due to changes in legislation, put forward by the International Sheep's Union, I am not permitted to give you any free of charge as it would be deemed a direct exploitation of labour and sheep's rights and a blatant discrimination against my ethnic colour group. I bid you good day.

Twig Pigs Sanguine swine, with bones of twine, Growing on a twiggy vine, The food of the future, fed on brine, Is picked, pre-pickled, ready for consumption, Grown to be mindless, happy pigs, it doesn't take much gumption, No axe or cleaver, no sword or knife, nor even blood to spill, To kill a vine picked, happy pig, it only takes a pill, Then plucked and prepared, it's ready to consume, An ecologists dream, no smoke, no fumes, No suffering endured, no blood shed, even vegetarians have their share, From poor twiggy piggies, no man refrains, They prefer creatures without their brains, The animals of the future are engineered to feed, not breed, Carnivorism has become a dying creed, The genuine swine, are done away with, too smart for their own good, The new kind are all the rage, but no one asks us why, We can't just keep our porky friends, just one or two to fry, Than rather a leafy, griefy, pinky, twiggy, vine grown pink pork pie, It's obvious that this should stop, although it begs the question why, When twiggy piggies make good bacon, it's easy to see why they lie

Bad News Is Free In a world where bad news is free, blared loudly from screens, And good news is printed, next to nudity on page three, An age when time is money, and money is increasingly rare, When good news is never bought, people stop to care, About the good guys being punished, and the bad guys never caught, The worst is to be expected, and the wrong history is taught, In a world where bad news, is all that'a heard and seen, We start to imagine that's all there's ever been, Good times are erased as bad things come to light, Politicians warning us of more economic plight, We must fight to keep our heritage, our nationalities, our rights To free information, to know when the futures looking bright, But information is key, and how can we expect all that? When it's the bad news that's always free.

Perfect “Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.” - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry Perfect! Everything was perfect. Everything was always perfect. Everything HAD to be perfect. A room, as pure as a surgeon’s glove. Sanitary. Sparse furniture; plain and dust protected, stiff and rarely used. The armchair, the little rocker with the creak when it moved, plush and softened by use, a thin film of dust beneath it, like an old mother hen surrounded by cardboard chicks. That chair, host to a screaming infant nurturing in its soft sway, clasped firmly by its mother. A mother with a grip that seemed like a diamond, hard and unmoving, a grip that in reality was as fragile as cracked glass; could shatter in an instant. The memory haunted me. Replaying repetitively in my mind; changing a little each time. The child a little physically older each time. The mother becoming more fragile, less responsive; yet all the more over protective of the baby in her grasp. Not wanting to ever let it go. Like watching goldfish in a bowl, swimming in circles, slowly losing their colour. Like an advert for domestic abuse, I watched myself, not quite knowing what would happen next. Like an advert the scene replayed over and over in my head My mother; She sat there, motionless; staring at the wall. Always. The silence that screamed. The overwhelming silence. I tolerated it, telling myself she would get better. Start talking again. Care for me again. I tried so many times to shake her out of it, but something deep inside her loved that chair, would not part with it, and my conscience rebelled against me if I so much as thought of moving her. It confused me. The mother: now small of stature and insipid, flesh on bone with long dark matted hair, a bleak figure of parenthood in a greyed wedding dress. Then and now, not much has changed. Mother weaker, unrelenting. The child no longer a child. The care-giver becomes the one in need of the care. I spend my time reliving what could have been. How things could be. I feel a pang of regret for what has become my #life, when I think what she made me become. But with all that has happened, there is nothing more for me, she needs me. I often sit, staring. Thinking back, holding back. Trying not to think, concentrating. Sometimes, I swear I can hear the creak of the old chair rocking. But it never moves. Always, always when my head is turned, I hear it. Like she’s playing games with me even now. Like a game of peek-a-boo. I was never any good at it, even then, even now. I sigh, to myself, she never listens. Or maybe she does, but she would never say. I pull the blanket up to her shoulders, as she looks so cold and pale. She stays perfectly still, still no response.