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I reckon Leslie Grantham could get you off to a tee. I hear you have similar hobbies.
:lol: I can’t just be posting my pumpkin up on the boards for all the riff raff to see! Maybe after dark.
She needs to be more careful, she’s spilled her cherryade all down her front.
And let that be a lesson to you. :D
The disc brakes drag,
The chequered flag sweeps across the oil-slick track.
The young man’s home; dry as a bone.
His helmet off, he waves: the crowd waves back.
One lap victory roll. Gladiator soul.
The taker of the day in winning has to say,
Isn’t it grand to be playing to the stand,
Dead or alive?The sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks,
Touches the old man where he sleeps.
The nurse brings up a cup of tea,
Two biscuits and the morning paper mystery.
The hard road’s end, the white God’s send
Is nearer everyday, in dying the old man says,
Isn’t it grand to be playing to the stand,
Dead or alive?The still-born child can’t feel the rain
As the chequered flag falls once again.
The deaf composer completes his final score.
He’ll never hear the sweet encore.
The chequered flag, the bull’s red rag,
The lemming-hearted hordes
Running ever faster to the shore singing,
Isn’t it grand to be playing to the stand,
Dead or alive?Jethro Tull ~ The Chequered Flag (Dead Or Alive)
Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands.
With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time.
You can call me on another line.
Indian restaurants that curry my brain.
Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station stand.
With cold print hands.
Symphony word-player, I’ll be your headline.
If you catch me another time.Didn’t make her
With my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn’t shake her
With my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her
But I’m just a Baker Street Muse.Ale-spew, puddle-brew
Boys, throw it up clean.
Coke and Bacardi colours them green.
From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princess with great finesse.
Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feet down in the Baker Street underground. (What the hell!)
Walking down the gutter thinking,
“How the hell am I today?”
Well, I didn’t really ask you but thanks all the same.Pig-Me And The Whore
“Big bottled Fraulein, put your weight on me,” said the pig-me to the whore,
Desperate for more in his assault upon the mountain.
Little man, his youth a fountain.
Overdrafted and still counting.
Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close to where he came from.
In the doorway of the stars, between Blandford Street and Mars;
Proposition, deal. Flying button feel. Testicle testing.
Wallet ever-bulging. Dressed to the left, divulging the wrinkles of his years.
Wedding-bell induced fears.
Shedding bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.
International assistance flowing generous and full to his never-ready tool.
Pulls his eyes over her wool.
And he shudders as he comes.
And my rudder slowly turns me into the Marylebone Road.Crash-Barrier Waltzer
And here slip I
Dragging one foot in the gutter
In the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she
No bed, no bread, no butter
On a double yellow line
Where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; crash-barrier waltzer
Some only son’s mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman
Blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster
Move the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux
His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a cheap hotel
I’ll pay the bill and make her well – like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still more independent.Mother England Reverie
I have no time for Time Magazine or Rolling Stone.
I have no wish for wishing wells or wishing bones.
I have no house in the country I have no motor car.
And if you think I’m joking, then I’m just a one-line joker in a public bar.
And it seems there’s no-body left for tennis; and I’m a one-band-man.
And I want no Top Twenty funeral or a hundred grand.
There was a little boy stood on a burning log,
Rubbing his hands with glee. He said, “Oh Mother England,
Did you light my smile; or did you light this fire under me?
One day I’ll be a minstrel in the gallery.
And paint you a picture of the queen.
And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree
It’s just the nonsense that it seems.”So I drift down through the Baker Street valley,
In my steep-sided un-reality.
And when all is said and all is done
I couldn’t wish for a better one.
It’s a real-life ripe dead certainty
That I’m just a Baker Street Muse.Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the same old way.
I tried to catch my eye but I looked the other way.Indian restaurants that curry my brain
Newspaper warriors changing the names they advertise from the station stand.
Circumcised with cold print hands.Windy bus-stop. Click. Shop-window. Heel.
Shady gentleman. Fly-button. Feel.
In the underpass, the blind man stands.
With cold flute hands.
Symphony match-seller, breath out of time
You can call me on another line.Didn’t make her
With my Baker Street Ruse.
Couldn’t shake her
With my Baker Street Bruise.
Like to take her
But I’m just a Baker Street Muse.(I can’t get out!)
Jethro Tull ~ Baker Street Muse
The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes, observed the spaces between the old men’s cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred, oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters, static-humming panel-beaters, freshly day-glow’d factory cheaters (salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action, belly warming, hands still rubbing (on the parts they never mention).
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers, T.V. documentary makers (overfed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players, family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he looked at all the friends he’d made.The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass
Saw his face in everyone.Jethro Tull ~ The Minstrel in the Gallery
Ethel Postlethwaite, for some reason she wasn’t aware of, was irresistibly drawn to the middle hot dog.
:D I quite fancy being an alcoholic. Ride a big motorbike, live in a caravan, buy a gun… chicks dig that shit.
