Weekly Muse

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Got burgled by the July moon -

Broke in, took nothing and then went.

She cased the attic, tried the door,

Left love notes in the dresser drawer,

Sprawled briefly on my garret floor.

Can't think what she was looking for.

The wintry eyes, the battered face:

A front-page study of a name

I all-but-worshipped in my teens,

Pete Townshend. He's the one to blame

For quite a lot of things I've done,

Like smoking Player's Number Six

While doing playground scissor-kicks,

To purchasing The Who Sell Out

Then throwing good guitars about.

Some boys just never quite grow up,

I don't know why. I can't explain.

But thirty years goes down the drain.

The discs go on. You're young again.

A scissor-kick? Just one, alright,

Before I settle down tonight,

While Pete stares out from Indie, Mon,

As if to say, "I saw yer, son".

Now here's to health campaigners

Who have unit-graded booze

So schoolkids trying to cane it

Now know which stuff to choose.

The new home/school agreement?

A fabulous idea.

I'm speaking as a parent,

I have to make this clear.

The six-year-old's in trauma,

But what's a bit of stress?

The management's dynamic

And hell-bent on success,

With dogs to round up pupils

And longer homework hours.

Why not complete the circuit

And have machine-gun towers?

Then target-dodging parents

Or anyone who's late

Can have the contract cancelled

Before they reach the gate.

A Dickens season's coming;

They broke the news this week.

The schedule planners love it

And viewing figures peak.

Some nice Victorian clothing,

A murky lamp-lit lane,

A brace of stupid surnames,

And off we go again.

"Good even'n' Mrs Gribbles.

D'ye beat the boy, I say?"

"Why yes, sir, Scratby does, sir,

That's why 'e ran away.

His mother died in childbirth.

We used to thrash her too,

When Obadiah Flenching

Was butler here to you."

"But what of Mistress Nubbidge,

And Clowcher, her young friend?"

"Old Hobbity might beat 'em,

If willin'... This weekend."