the poet's task is to deceive

there's nothing we can do to end the strain
on all the hearts that beat beneath our air
the hero who would be will soon be slain
those who remain with ten-thousand-mile stare
ignore your words or see them as a snare
no means remain for us to stop the rot
the wisest ones are burning in the square
while i am at the centre you are not

a million children go against the grain
and claim to beard the wolf right in his lair
that something is the matter should be plain
but honesty's a thing that's now quite rare
we don't expect that any day'll be fair
and not a one of you's a little snot
we want the stallion but ride the mare
while i am at the centre you are not

an echo of the message signals pain
for those who have a heart and want to care
while others think such things a dismal stain
on those who act while others would not dare
no ghosts are hiding underneath the stair
and everything's been placed in proper slot
to ride the train you have to pay the fare
while i am at the centre you are not

prince i would urge you never to despair
though things are hard you have not lost the plot
some day there comes an end to this affair
while i am at the centre you are not
 

staying calm

 a thousand years of patience have to end
not one of you could ever hope or pray
to see the demise of the present trend
and truth and justice resume proper sway
the world is always lit in shades of grey
but if we wait enough both serf and squire
will find that every preacher's a plain liar
and there's no healing for the human scar
we have just those things that we may acquire
the journey's long but ending's not so far

we cannot choose to borrow nor to spend
our hopes on those who saw love as mere play
not what the sunrise ever could portend
when all we see is skirmish and affray
from well-marked paths the goatish ones will stray
and cannot once be stopped by the barbed wire
who knows the pastures to which they aspire
but not one of our barriers is a bar
to those who when pressed can leap even higher
the journey's long but ending's not so far

there's nothing that we could think or intend
that would affect one word of all you say
the road is hidden past the nearest bend
and no maps serve now to show us the way
our only knowledge is we cannot stay
to listen to the plainsong of the choir
or for the calming of the others' ire
it never matters if we can't reach par
the better field's in quite another shire
the journey's long but ending's not so far

prince there's no reason for you to conspire
against us since we too soon must retire
to places that are hidden from your star
the firmest road ends up in thickest mire
yet there's not gold enough to pay our hire
the journey's long but ending's not so far

never lie still

waters are turbulent but still most deep
there's nothing here that can serve as a mark
to show that we weren't just here for a lark
the signs of duty over pleasure creep
there's so much that we simply cannot keep
the options are as always simply stark
we listen but the dog just will not bark
and nothing serves to disturb our warm sleep
easy in attitude we still must wait
for ordinary time to have its say
before we can refill the empty pail
there are no strangers hiding by the gate
yet passage is uncertain on the way
and no one has come back with any tale

words must be proper

 

a tiny glimpse of giant who was there
but now lies hidden by an old man's grief
the world may sometimes turn out to be fair

all things you did by the straight line and square
yet never once did you impose belief
a tiny glimpse of giant who was there

i do not know the view at which you stare
nor just what when a boy you called mischief
the world may sometimes turn out to be fair

all that i learned what that a man must dare
no matter that his glory will be brief
a tiny glimpse of giant who was there

it turns out there was nothing left to spare
and that still must have come as a relief
the world may sometimes turn out to be fair

there's something of you riding on the air
to chide the sluggard and upbraid the thief
a tiny glimpse of giant who was there
the world may sometimes turn out to be fair

some sort of hero

 

who measured all the corners of the dark
and did not see the old monsters' return
has other issues which we should not spurn

there is no chance we'll find this place a park
nor for its older form shall we soon yearn
who measured all the corners of the dark

we don't require a starter nor a spark
to leave our ashes in the ancient urn
we find it easy both to love and burn
who measured all the corners of the dark

way of choosing

 we ask for nothing but the best of life
our only hope becomes a solemn task
while we march on to tune of drum and fife
you'd not expect us in our pomp to bask
in the applause that seems to be a mask
not just for hope but for a greater pride
a thing that not a soul could hope to hide
beyond the world in places yet unseen
we turn our feet at last and head inside
who we acclaim is minister not queen

what we must know is all trouble and strife
until we fit the bung back in the cask
the issue with grave portent shall be rife
we find that each of us could fill a flask
but would not want as yet to overtask
and so we let the worst of them all slide
past all the ones who still ought to decide
just what the symbols and the sigils mean
we tell them that for you they have to bide
who we acclaim is minister not queen

each of us knows the answer man or wife
there's one who's service is just to bemask
the face of one who knows to wield the knife
but whose true name we would not dare to ask
beneath a cover satin or damask
we would not ever want you to deride
the honest worker and the deicide
or choose which way the flag will have to lean
there are so many ways to choose a side
who we acclaim is minister not queen

prince you reveal that you know just who lied
when asked just who was taken for a ride
but that's no proper way to set the scene
we have no complex message to elide
but have to honour the one who must guide
who we acclaim is minister not queen