Weekly Muse

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The Independent Culture
A mean old sod the winter is

As scowling down the lane he goes

Thrashing hedges, stripping trees.

Until the land lies comatose

They look at me in disbelief

And ask me how I still survive

When conversation turns to cars

And people find I cannot drive.

I've never driven. Felt no urge

Am filed "not as other men"

Confronted with some shiny heap

I'll ask: "Is that a good one then?"

The puzzled looks I sometimes get

Awaiting buses in the rain

They ask me: "How d'you get about?"

I cycle, walk or take a train.

And if it's late, I stay the night

Or share a cab home from a bar

And still I find in my accounts

It's cheaper than to run a car.

So what is all the fuss about?

As Blair Takes On The Motorists

That people get emotional

Parp horns, make faces, brandish fists?

"I have to have a car for work."

The commonest excuse today.

Perhaps that's why the road is full

With shoppers going two miles away

All stony-faced in pseudo Jeeps

To supermarkets out of town

Because "the choice is greater there."

As all the local shops close down.

And we who do not worship cars

Are often labelled "quaint" somehow

But learn those bus-times, oil the bike.

It could be we're the future now.

Bored with going to Umbria?

Sick of seeing Spain?

Tired of trudging Cumbria

In the teeming rain?

What about a holiday

Orbiting the planet?

Beats a week at Alresford Creek

Or the Isle Of Thanet.

Could be science fiction.

Not so in this case.

There in Tuesday's Indie;

Holidays in space.

In a hundred-room hotel

Earth far down below

Planning for a honeymoon?

Ideal place to go

Granted, you'll be space-sick

One of the effects

But the selling point is clear;

Full-on weightless sex

Ibiza may be cheaper

- And easier but hey,

A Sixty-two Mile High Club?

Just think of the cachet.

Romantic nights and days so long

The wines, the pines, the Tuscan sun

Remember how they played our song?

Cherie Baby ... that's the one.

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