The Ribbonwood Lane Reprise.
Down Ribbonwood Lane, the ladies did stray
the children and buses on their way
the cloudless sky joins the fray
the days when love abounds.
Down Ribbonwood Lane the Jesuits do ply,
their daily trade as cars whiz by,
parishioners set to live and die
days when life resounds.
Down Ribbonwood Lane the cattle do chew
pastures of chaff and Ribbonwood stew,
the children just don’t know what to do,
days when longing is bound.
Down Ribbonwood Lane the cars drive past,
the longer the laughter the bigger the blast,
the food at McDonalds exorbitantly fast,
days when rogues are found.
Down Ribbonwood Lane the cycle of life
the lonely vagabond causing strife
a butcher waves his cutting knife
days when ladies are profound.
Down Ribbonwood Lane a painting is born
the hunter puffs on his Hunting Horn,
the lost children all forlorn
days when babies compound.
Down Ribbonwood Lane the skies are Black
the welcome sign says “Welcome back”,
the herding chains sag so slack,
days when basketballs rebound.
Down Ribbonwood Lane the lights shine bright,
such is the feeling deep in the night,
the cars turn left, then turn right,
days when night sounds.
Why Don’t God Speak to Me
Mummy, why don’t God talk to me?
I mean I pray, and beseech him
and I never hear him answer,
yet Daddy and you and I go to church
and we sing and praise and pray
yet still God don’t wanna talk to me.
Daddy, does God talk to you at all,
I mean you’re a man of God, like Mummy
you both have a good time glory hallelujah,
and both have good lives, has God ever talked to you?
Dear God, I’m praying to you still
I’m no longer 8, now a stoic 17
but you knew that, now didn’t you,
I’m getting paranoid all the time
wondering when you will answer
whether I’m worthy of your kingdom
if such a kingdom exists!!
Dear Old Fella Up Top, I’m 49 now
I think I heard you when I went mad
such a sad time to be the ambulance
stuck well and truly at the bottom of the cliff.
Hole in a Fine Wig
Someone stole my hole, bereft I be
it’s wholesale slaughter of epic proportions
as I loll neath the bole in my favourite tree.
Darkness draws coal in a fire hole
where flames leap and dance
sort of hyperbole of the cakehole.
Someone rigged my wig with fine hair
a wiggle here and there, I don’t give a fig
to sate myself, I take a swig of Twigs fine brew
there is a fine Brig holding drunk sailors
who think it’s big of them to be there
I rig myself with the days distrust and swig again.
Someone stole my fine line, a beauty to be sure
the wine in the casket echoes my attire finery,
a refined gentleman I be, that’s thine stance,
it’s doubly difficult the tine on the fork says
as romantics dine on salad and tuna, sublime
the refinery pumps out more juice for thirsty workers.