But don’t give up for you can do it all right
To impress all your friends this Saturday night.
Now you have got this far, lay the dust sheet down,
So that the sticky old paint won’t stick to the ground.
And what have you got to go on to prove to yourself
This decorating malarkey is not left on the shelf
You have finally found the wood, it’s all bare,
And its about flippin’ time you went and washed your hair.
Next step is sand it all down, but think of the dust,
You don’t have much choice but continue you must.
With nosebag on your face and goggles for your eyes,
Different grades of sandpaper on blocks, them all you have tried.
The paper is worn thin,
Your fingers have no skin.
You have breathed in the dust, your throat is so hoarse,
So you want to give and go down to the pub of course.
Down at the boozer after a swift half
You boast and brag at your artistic craft.
But hey! The job isn’t finished, it’s not yet complete,
For those half empty paintpots and tools are still under your feet.
So you unveil the furniture, somewhere down there is the floor.
You’re feeling quite pleased with the achievement of it all.
But friends and family are not too impressed.
Well bugger them all, you did your best.
UP HEAVAL
Have you ever lived in a house,
Where there is no plaster on the walls,
Nor flooring on the floor
Where everything is in boxes
that have been put away somewhere?
You see different workmen every day
Some come to spray the wood,
others to make the damp-course good.
Some work upstairs, some work down
And they all turn on their drills, just to hear the sound.
They ripped out the bathroon..... just like that!
And the dining room furniture, now where is that?
And just when you think it’s safe,
To put things back in their place
You find workmen or tools still on the stairs,
Your house is in ruin, but it shows that you care
New ceilings, new floor-boards – upstair’s now complete.
But those inconvenient workmen still get under your feet!
There’s only one place for sanity and that’s the garden shed.
if this upheaval brings more delay, that’s where I’ll put my bed.
(c) Sylvie Roberts 1992
COOK’S DOWNFALL
I’ve cooked in the flickering shadow of candlelight.
I´ve cooked on a camping gas on a cold wet windy night.
I know what it’s like to sweat over the stove for Christmas dinner.
But with salads in the summer in the hope of getting slimmer.
I’ve cooked burgers and bangers on a B.B.Q:
I’ve cooked romantic lunches for me and you.
I’ve used electric cookers but prefer the gas.
I’m no gourmet chef.... just a simple lass.
I don’t like cooking by microwave,
And I tell you I’m no cooking slave.
But, I do enjoy cooking anything from cakes,
Breakfast dishes, lunches or red raw steaks.
I can fry, I can boil, I can poach I can roast.
But though I love cooking.... do you think I can do toast?????.
May 2001
This was written as an imedate response to a friends poem, where she was making
loads of cash as a car bootsale. (I loth them myself.)
Car Bootie HUMP!
It's ok for her, making loads of cash
from hubbies buying loads of trash.
Like rusty nail, bent screws and a toothless saw
and jeans and jackets that are far too small
Loads of junk that we dont realy need at all.
OH why have you bought another back door
we dont darn well need it, we already have FOUR.
This house has become a local tip
for other people's shit.
dont tell me you have bought YET another box of tool
Shopping at car booties are for the bigger fools.
More crap toys for the kids
and tupaware pots that ant gotany lids.
and electrical stuff that don't even work
to clog up OUR space
What the f#@$k is wrong with the human race
This house is full or car-bootie crap, none of it our own
I call it a dump not a respecable home.
I'LL say it again, as I,ve said so many time before
If you go to another car-bootie for more crap
THEN I'M WALKING OUT THE DOOR
It's ok for HER, making loads of cash
selling us all her unwanted trash
But for heavens sake, i'm your wife
I vowed to love you for the rest of my life
but those vows will soon be broken, if you dont heed what I say
Please sweetheart dont go to another car-bootie NOT TODAY.
30/04/00
Still on the theme of CARS, Here are the words of a song written by Steve Knightly and Phil Bere.
CARS
Welcome to my city
I got up at dawn to drive to the coast
It’s 50 miles, two hours at most
I’m feeling good, the weather is fine……
I drive down my drive, what do I find?
CARS, the only thing I can see is CARS
I wanted to be there hours ago
But because of the mile upon mile of cars
I take a chance and take the next right
I’ll drive through the back streets, there’s nothing in sight.
Picking up speed, making good time,
And take the next left, and guess what I find?
CARS, the only thing I can see is CARS
I wanted to be there hours ago
But because of the mile upon mile of cars
You Know that now we have got the wheels
There is no where else to go
Tearing up the fields
Turning country into road
Cutting down the trees
Blasting through the chalk
I don’t agree with this
But then I don’t walk
You don’t walk
Does anyone walk here, or anywhere?
I’ve got room for five but I come alone in my car
I wanted to be there hours ago
But because of the mile upon mile of cars
I’m giving up, I’m driving back home
I’ve driven up and down
But I can’t find a place
I’ve driven round and round
Not a single parking space
All I want to do is park,
But I can’t because of CARS.
All I can see is mile upon mile of CARS,
Nothing but a sea of cars
Diplomatically borrowed from: Steve Knightly and Phil Bere
WHY
With guns in hand, and hatred in heart
A bomb in a suitcase- that tears a nation apart
an evil act of terrorism.
We have to ask ourselves WHY?
So many innocent lives gone to be angles in the sky
A word of declamation
as a world at war between two nations.
But why such great loss of life, why at all
Has hope for peace gone for ever- gone for ever more?
Why cant we love our neighbours _Why must we go to war!
Some one's husband someone's father someone's son
trained to kill a stranger trained to use a gun.
After death and desperation,
come poverty and diseases to an ill stricken nation.
Our soldiers our sailors brave folk everyone
sent to sort problems of some other one
sent over sea, But why, why must there be war?
cant we live in peace any more?
Sylvia, April 2004 after the terrorist attack in Madrid.
TROWBRIDGE
There’s a dirty murky river running through an uninteresting park.
Everywhere the evidence of vandals who have left their mark.
Where once there were ducks, beautiful swans and pikes,
Now lies discarded shopping trolleys and stolen bikes.
Not a beauty spot where one can stroll along,
On a midsummer eve humming a song!
The shopping town itself, once small and quaint
Is in desperate need of a coat of fresh paint.
Its now grey and eerie with a hostile chill
Strong evidence of its trade with the textils mill.
Those square stone buildings standing so tall,
All the windows smashed , graffiti on the wall.
There are the playgrounds for the pushers,
The leasers, the queers and child abusers.
The notice board tells of the death of some kids
The victims of wiffers of glue-pot lids.
There’s a hard rock café in town for the sale of night life
But I wouldn’t go there for fear of being knifed
.
Down by the water meadows could be a beautiful place.
But dog walkers and litter make it a disgrace.
It’s a local haunt for guys with no jobs,
Layabouts, dropouts and other such yobs.
A hellhole for scramble bikers with screaming sound,
A place for burnt out cars, a dumping ground.
But I discovered a spot still full of peace
Just out of town, down the canal a piece.
Hand-painted narrow boats, flower beds and arts
And a well kept towpath with flowers, trees and crafts.
But alas that too is under the developers siege,
For luxurious apartments instead of the trees.
There will be shopping centres, restaurants as well as more bars
For those who drive big, expensive flash cars
There won’t be any affordable accommodation
For those in some kind of financial deprivation.
I can feel it in my bones, on the horizon it looms
As for this beautiful place, the peace and tranquility are doomed
23-02-05
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