The Falcon that heard the falconer

The shelves were empty, 4pm darkness
Snow such as we hardly┬ásaw even at the end of ’10
The edge of capitalism, the last stop before you fall over
Such as no generation will know again

A town that crumbled and decayed; turned round in ’00
No next generation will know the journeys beyond
Isolation, one step out, what couldn’t be obtained
An edge which fell between all and pleased few

(The Beatles vinyl my mum wanted, when I was a young fogey)

iTunes, YouTube and Spotify can have no equivalents
That might have been a problem for Tories in another time
But all they are today is Whigs; Marx phase one without phase two
And the fewer gates are kept the better

Last day in another town, first colour ad on Southern
The shelves were emptier still, it was Lawrence
Filthy dark, cold, instant inspiration
And never did I know better that you can never go back

(Author’s note: the subject of the last verse here led directly to something I wrote on my first site. ┬áThe usual reservations apply, but in this case, its inspiration actually liked it.)

Why I didn’t vote in the Portland Town Council election yesterday

A level of government
That has no power or meaning
But survives as a sop
For Tories who don’t know what they voted for
But still they moan about foreigners

It should have been removed
In ’74 or ’94
But the facade must be maintained
(Compare and contrast ’86)
And still they moan about foreigners

Their vision of the world
Comes from plutocrats abroad
They think themselves to be separate
But are actually dependant
And still they moan about foreigners

They talk of independence
They talk of distinctive ways
But they live in global suburbs
And couldn’t cope beyond
And still they moan about foreigners

They think they’re taking something back
But those who have taken away
Are never fought or opposed
And the innocent are guilty
And still they moan about foreigners

They know no more their inheritance
Than deconstructionists or Trots
Blackburn knew it no more
Than Hall or Jacques or Ali, T
And still they moan about foreigners

Cadbury knew their future
As he railed at the IBA
They take “Hotel California”
To the level of “Linden Lea”
And still they moan about foreigners

They thought Liege and Lief
Was for grammar school Marxists
In their White Plains sec mods
In the first wave of Murdoch
And still they moan about foreigners

Further north are others
Who actually know what they mean
When they talk of community
And don’t have a foreign culture
And that’s why they don’t moan about foreigners