These old sentinels  guard over us in our early years stolid as  grandfather clocks their old hearts pendulum the rhythm of life into our ears a blood metronome beat sounding to the timpani of our tiny feet .

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A cynical love song . My Family members were 1920s dyed-in-the-wool Yorkshiremen who believed that love be measured in pounds Shillings and pence and behind the white picket fence was a work house specially built to keep wife wain or wench who had a value similar to that of blood stock and foul , children being merely chattels without soul .

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A little tune i wrote for James who's very devout in his religion each Sunday we usually have a long discussion with him trying to convert me to his Christianity and me remaining with my humble hallowed humanity both of us respectful of each others theistic thoughts.

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A short story about crazy maniacs who shared space and spilt blood with me , you should never really put three bisexuals and an asexual under one roof especially if one pushes everything and everyone to the limit of their patience

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A song about setting off on a world tour in the late seventies was nothing like it is today there were no mobile phones or multimedia just the odd phone box for calls with your thumb and forefinger for transportation hitchhiking thousands of miles around the globe taking years and years almost a decade to the point where many of us became wonderlust with our own wanderlust , but we did become quite skilled in the art of conversation due to spending so much time spieling with strangers , way back when you had the safety of being completely anonymous due to not having any mobiles or media where now the new wage travellers are so guarded due to the sapiens surveillance of God Google and the silicone starzi Siri .

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A song about emperors and kings who believe themselves to be the devine demagoguery If a devine deity did arrive on planet earth these mobsters and megalomaniacs would see them quickly murdered .

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A poem about an old rag and bone man who started out with just a horse and cart then after a life of skinflinting strife became very rich but even after acquiring great wealth he still retained his beggar man roots and rhetoric.

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The Westminster war of brexit has spilt a lot of blood onto the backbenchers but who will win the feudal few or the milky middle class crew .

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The Oxfam shop or as we call it "The dead man's drop" is an essential part of our high street culture we all of us at some stage find ourselves sifting through their silt as if stroking and smelling the scents and spirits of our past relatives like some lost and found bric-a-brac burial ground we old elephants come to rummage around amongst the bones and skin of our not so long ago departed kin. Unfortunately all the objects mentioned in this musing is what I have purchased and given away to friends and family as Christmas and birthday presents including many more objects d'arts or as most of my recipient's see them , jumble sale junk.

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What was once a stamp for the tramp or cut of a criminal class is now adorning the faces and physique of aristocrat, royalty and supermodel chic .

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