Liberal Britain?

Today’s news contained an item on a survey that suggested Britain was becoming more liberal in its attitudes. Too liberal if you ask Steve! Only last week, Steve was walking around the historic town of Roman Chester when His feet became tangled in some piece of detritus that a litter lout had discarded without any care or concern for his or her environment – probably a Liverpoolian on a day trip.

Steve bent down to untangle his feet and was astonished to discover that the discarded item was a flesh-toned brazier, size 34E. Apart from the obvious worry of an obviously well-endowed female going unsupported, Steve could not think why such an item of clothing should be abandoned in the midst of a busy and popular shopping thoroughfare. And in the shadow of a cathedral! Sacrilege!

It is symptomatic of the lack of responsibility the individual accords Society in general. To strew the highways and byways with underwear, almost causing fatal accidents without a care in the world, is cast iron evidence (if any were needed) that Britain is going to hell in a handcart.

Lines on Discarded Undergarments

(A Haiku by Steve Ego)

Abandonment of a bra

Is a step too far

Cathedrals mourn, despairing.

(Copyright Steve Ego)

The Last Resort

The Last Resort

(A poem by Steve Ego)

There are no baths in New Brighton

The Lido has gone for a song

The tower of awe

Isn’t there anymore

The beaches are grey and they pong.

I blame the Birkenhead Burghers

For the Jewel of Wirral they’ve murdered

They’ve cut budgets and slashed

Our attractions they’ve smashed

Left a bun but they’ve nicked the beefburger.

(Copyright Steve Ego)

Sweet Memories

Sweet Memories

(A poem by Steve Ego)

Who remembers OLD JAMAICA?

Alas! Lost to the vending machine of time…

Gone, too, the AZTEC and COCONUT BOOST!

INSPIRATIONS no longer inspire, SPIRA

Went the way of SKIPPY and TOFFEE BUTTONS 

Are left unchewed …

How long before the Famous Glass

and a Half is cut to one percent?

Or I Can’t Believe It’s Not Milk?

I DREAM of British chocolate!

Not this market-led FUDGE, dealers

CHOMPing at the bit to get their filthy mits

On our purple wrappers. It’s TWISTED!

They CRUNCHIE over the bones of BOURNVILLE,

As if a corporate takeover was a PICNIC.

So let them hear our WISPA, people, our WISPA

Growing ever louder -

KEEP YOUR YANKIE HANDS OFF OUR CURLYWURLYS!

(Copyright Steve Ego)

Broken Heart? Broken Britain!

Steve’s latest poem needs no introduction from Him.

Broken

(A poem by Steve Ego)

The paving stone of my heart is cracked in twain

The concrete weakened fatally by acid rain.

The verbal hazard trips tripping off thy tongue, twisting ankles.

Thy cruel, heartless words they really rankled!

The streetlight’s smashed, walls covered in graffiti …

I don’t miss thy cold looks, but fondly remember the meaty

Stews we shared; scrag end of lamb, a few onions …

Those boots thou bought me pinch, cause blisters and bunions.

Nothing runs on time, the trains are cancelled …

Remember the dance hall where the band swelled?

It’s been burned to the ground – arsonists, yobs.

Britain is held hostage to the slobs!

What price broken Britain? What price my broken heart?

Only my few simple words to console me; thus I follow my art …

(Copyright Steve Ego)

The Look of Love

Steve is deeply dismayed by the sudden proliferation of pink and red hearts and flowers, not to mention chocolate eggs, in the temples of commerce of Birkenhead. He hasn’t yet has His credit card bill for the over-the-top Christmas gift-giving bonanza of last month and already He’s being urged to spend yet more money on those He adores in order to prove that He adores them. Well, Beat It, Beatties! You won’t get another penny out of Steve for very many months.

Steve knows that a hand-crafted poem – lyrics of love and lyricism – will always find its way into a woman’s knickers, ahem, heart.  (Excuse the less than sophisticated wit there. Poets have a sense of humour, too!).

If it was good enough for Lord Byron, then it’s good enough for Steve. Only today, on His journey home after an arduous day in the office (has Steve mentioned that His boss is an idiot?) (That is not a joke, by the way), He (Steve) had to pull over into a layby and scribble down His latest lines of verse. He had been listening to Anyone Can Fall in Love by Anita Dobson, a much under-rated songstress from the 1980s, and had been inspired by the seraphic soprano of this raven-haired beauty.

And thus, overtaken by His Muse (and several horn-blaring trucks whose drivers clearly did not have proper control of their vehicles, given the obscene gestures they were engaged in gesticulating) Steve penned a few lines.

Love’s Labours Lost

(A poem by Steve Ego)

Would a Rose* by any other name smell still as sweet?

From the nape of your shaved neck to the hard skin crusted on your feet,

From your sapphire and steely eyes, to your ruby red sweet lips

From the fleshy rolls at your waist, to the seismic rippling of your hips,

From your swollen ankles, to the orange peel dimples of your thighs,

From the slushy snow of New Brighton, to Southport’s summer azure skies,

Let me stain you with my passion! Let us trust to lust and love!

And though fat girls aren’t in fashion, you are (and will always be) my pigeon-breasted dove.

(Copyright Steve Ego)

 

* She was not really called Rose but it’s always been how I think of her. My little Lancastrian Rose. Dear, departed**,  ever missed, ever remembered …

** She moved to Frodsham in 1984.

Wandering in the Wilderness

Today, Steve offered the hand of friendship to a careworn shelf stacker in Lidl. He (Steve) informed the acne-chinned youth that root vegetables should be stored in brown paper bags rather than plastic wrappers. The lad (improbably named Che) shrugged and plugged his i-pod earphones back in. He made it clear that he had no interest at all in listening to the wisdom of his elders.

 

Later, in the Dried Goods aisle, a Brussell sprout hit Steve on the back of the neck. This is what we get for joining the European Union; small, nutritious, British vegetables being utilised as missiles.

 

Steve complained to the manager, a surly woman past her best. She yawned and said, “I’ll add it to all your other complaints, Mr Ego.”

 

Still, a poet’s life is not an easy path. Was not Byron the subject of the slings and arrows of misfortune? The odd parsnip or Jersey Royal ricocheting from his bardic bonce?

 

The poet’s role in life is to prick the conscience of Society and, if occasionally, that makes Him a scapegoat for the spotty youths and surly harpies who populate the highways and byeways of Wirral, well, then He is proud to suffer for His art!

Wandering in the Wilderness

(A poem by Steve Ego)

 

This last world

and a little one to boot,

and but…

and however…

atop a beauty, it seemed offered,

and impacts heroicistic and poetistic to

universal eternity.

 

But no word – however it is returned -

skies – or no – of which we can be sure.

This is but a short human life everyone has

(including dwarves and midgets -

for are we not all the Children of Light?)

 and a small number* can comprise

the point of the centre mortalistic.

 

Haddock, tock, haddock.

We waste the time now and thus doth times’s refusals.

Haddock, tock, Haddock.

 

Thus, it is that we doth plow over in the tracks metaphoristic

only repetition of volume of the individualistic, futuristic

and violentistic commandos have paradoxicallistic

cause to a world of the diminished attractions …

 

Ours is not eatable!

 

And the single faith’s still raising.

It is!

 

In humanistic autonomy,

guide-dogs of our destiny

are but a false notion!

Yea! And verily!

Stupid this that always leads to weevils.

 

(Copyright Steve Ego)

 

* no pun intended

Why, oh why, oh why…

… do people feel the need to continually whinge about the snow? (Thinks Steve). Okay, so there’s a bit of the old white stuff on the ground. And, okay, it’s a bit slippery underfoot. And, okay, it’s been a bit parky. But it’s not the End of the World, is it?

Steve cannot understand today’s British mentality of whinging. We are a community of complainers, never happier than when moaning.

Snow Good

(A poem by Steve Ego)

O, why do you whinge, dear Wirral?

Where else could you see a squirrel

Skitter across the snow?

In Birkenhead Park

There’s a swan and a lark

Twittering* to and fro.

Snow covers the scum

The delinquents and bums

It’s not all bad you know.

(Copyright Steve Ego)

*Twitter as in the traditional sound birds make, not the modern definition.