I have to do some homework for my writers group today
They've given us some subjects but I don't know what to say.
Fly's footprints in the butter, what kind of mind said that?
The only thing that comes to mind is here's the fly swat, splat!

Memories of my Granddad or my Grandma might go well,
But Mum's lot lived in Barnsley, so there's not a lot to tell.
The stone sink in the kitchen and the wooden rocking chair
Was Grandma's lot, no fancy labour saving gadgets there.

Granddad had a budgie and he taught it how to speak,
He taught it well, so no profane word ever passed its beak.
The family were miners, all their faces black as coal.
In Barnsley there was no choice, down the hole or on the dole!

I suppose I could do politics, but where's the fun in that?
You know before I start I think John Howard's just a prat.
I never had much time for pollies, whatever their intent.
The bloody lot could hide behind a corkscrew, they're so bent.

No, maybe I'll wax lyrical, and talk of flowers in spring,
Of snowdrops and of daffodils and all that sort of thing,
Of bees collecting pollen in a gentle summer breeze,
And how the bees will sting you, and the pollen makes you sneeze.

I'd talk about my aches and pains but no one gives a shit,
How crystals cured my vertigo so I can stand or sit
Or lie without the bedroom whirling clockwise round my head,
But friends all look bored shitless, so I guess it's birds instead.


There's a mud lark, thinks his soul mate lives inside a sheet of glass.
He ran to her in Heathcliffe style, but landed on his ass
When Cathy's clear reflection turned out harder than his beak.
That mirror knocked him right into the middle of next week.

My birdbath, it attracts the birds, of every shape and size.
A wagtail takes its weekly bath, right before my eyes.
The crows bring rock-hard crusts of bread and dip them in the water,
While doves, the randy little gits, do things they shouldn't orter!

I could discuss my music taste, but I did that once before.
To set my mind to something new is getting quite a chore,
Sometimes I find that homework is becoming more and more
A bore, and so to hell with this, I'm heading out the door!

I'll find a spot beside a lake and feed the birds with bread,
I'll take a book, and after all the swans and ducks are fed,
I'll read a bit and dream a bit, and generally just float
And take delight in savouring what some other bugger wrote.