We used to be the bonhomie brothers to revelry these ghosts of the good Life that now haunt past each other in the street with a gaze averted towards your feet , their spirits and spectres have all been exorcised by a big dry of sobriety which has turned them into normal members of society ; now they they don't strut so proud or shout too loud , now they just shuffle past you with their eyes cowed and heads held bowed.

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Listening to these waffling old windbags wheezing about saving our world , those who quaff down expensive wine squandering fifty pounds a glass and then dare to set the price of carbon capture at three pounds a ton and this to save your granddaughter or grandson ?.

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Every day the paparazzi serve us our sadistic sacrifice all flesh red and raw, no good being a herbivore if you read the daily tabloid's blood and gore , You've really got to be a proper cover story carnivore with the stomach of a toreador , let's face it the press room's a slaughtering house stable and the editor's desk is nothing more than the butcher's table.

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Her swan song is what you hear just before your love boat runs aground and the scent of sulphur be the final pheromone you smell as you slowly begin to drowned .

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A musing I wrote about the sixty three year love affair between a member of the royal family and one her dutiful long standing servant known as

G M for short, the Queen mums old cool companion .

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Looking at some tramps in cider park I felt so sorry for them but more so for their poor starving pets as their masters swill down cider and the pets shivered in the cold. The musing is seen and spoken through the dogs perspective .

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A song I wrote in the old music hall traditiion of two verse chorus which is similar to the church stanza chorus stanza chorus I've also sang it in the baritone barber shop of a beggers opera style like that of my father who born in 1925 still bursts into song similar to a Mississippi minstrel .

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Upon seeing a cold cadaver staring back people begin to timidly tread in fear of the dead circling round as though it be some spectral apparition of dread .

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A song wrote about a mafia boss who was born in Le panier Marseille the last bastion of Beelzebub , he then rose to become France's ultimate crime Capo Di Capo lasting fifty years before being gunned down in Paris for an old corsican vendetta all rights reserved .

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A poem for Katy on reception who drives ever man crazy by giving them a glimpse of the promised land only then to watch gleefully as they walk towards her straight into a paradise of quicksand .

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