The Weekly Muse

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Down the drain the dark days spin

And Time the vandal doesn't care,

He lines your face and thins your hair.

November comes. Don't let him in.

It's Halloween, and getting late.

A man is standing at your gate.

The Exorcist to say a mass?

Not quite. He's here about the gas.

So never mind that you're depressed

To find your child has been possessed,

The victim of some ancient hex -

He wants to sell you Calortex.

Have pity on the seahorse male

With spiny mane and twining tail

Who mates and then is duty-bound

To cart the unhatched eggs around

And though he's tired and losing weight

He's still molested by his mate;

And if she doesn't get her way

She calls the Seahorse CSA.

They'll soon be cloning childless men -

I think about this now and then,

A vision of a world gone mad

Where Bob's your uncle and your dad

Then, further down the line, your son

Till in the end, Bob's everyone.

Religions may declare it crime:

I'm sure that they'll relent in time.

When scientists complete their job

We'll go to church and worship Bob.

Ron Davies went. It's only right.

But what was going on that night?

He met those strangers, did a deal

And went with them to have a meal.

They stole his money, left him there

And then they vanished in thin air...

It must have been an awful day.

In Ron's defence I'd like to say

How standard this experience is

For people in the music biz.

The new Top Five, dull as could be,

And most of them are known to me

Except Alanis Morissette.

An unfamiliar disc and yet

I knew I'd heard that name before...

My grandma drove one in the war.

The river rises, countryman,

Equip yourself as best you can.

Flippers,wet-suit, mini-sub -

I hope you make it to the pub.

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