Liverpool

Each building stands defiantly
Denying its’ slave-trading past
Each whaling wharf an echo 
Of an epoch that has passed

Each street upon her steepest banks
Looks down towards the river
That cataract of life and health
That Global Treasure-Giver

This lifeblood of an ancient city
Is scattered on her people 
From Everton to Formby Sands 
From Anfield’s Kop to Steeple

This cosmopole of life and language
A north-west English muddle
The birthplace of a culture change
This vibrant Liverpuddle

A haemorrhage of song and rhyme
Pours out from every alley
From Merseybeat originates
Each soulful Scouser’s rally

This laughter-filled 
Renouncing cry
Seems somehow idiotic
This juxtapose of witty song
Is socio-patriotic 

But this town built the mighty ships
That put the Great in Britain
That sailed across this sapphire sphere
And wrote books never written

From a natural tidal inlet 
Was the Old Dock erstwhile based
The ancient “Pool” that gave its name
To Liver’s resting place 

Today the cormorants stand high
Atop the white stone dome
With wings outstretched did these birds bless
Their native naval home

P J Deakin 2016 ©

Farage Rhymes with Garage 

I feel the time has come for me to publicly disparage
The smug obnoxious Xenophobe Whose surname rhymes with garage

His out and out rejection of immigration, blacks and Hanukkah
Seems to me to be an irony
Given the pronunciation of his moniker!

Farage has rather a Frankish twang
A certain je ne sais quoi!
So how can a man with such obvious French ancestry 
Be so quick to bar?!

I’ve concluded he’s a masochist,
His campaign has left him jobless
He turned up at his office, Friday
And to the lot said “cobblers!”

He’s a man I find so easy to hate
Yet many rally to him
But while the snake may have fooled them
I personally see right through him.

His thin-veiled threats of anarchy 
And Anglo-ruled apartheid
Are not a threat but promises
To whitewash all of England’s past
And make us Dulux White!

But I’m Irish, see. (Well, my grandma was!)
And my name has Norman virtue
And my Grandad’s name’s from Viking times
So where do I return to??!

Do I fly to Cork to find a life
In Ireland’s southernmost town,
Or sail to Normandy or in fact
To Denmark settle down.

There’s no such thing as English
We’re a multicultural nation!
Anglo (French) and Saxon (German) is hardly pure breeding
But these people want to rewrite the books 
Historians will be reading.

Without the Normans
Would an Englishman’s home
His castle still remain?
And without Vikings would we be
The mariners we became?

The Romans built our towns and roads
But what have they ever done for us?!
The Irish built the railway lines 
So you don’t have to take the bus!

The Windies brought us colour
With their music, style and vision
Imagine the long Winter of discontent 
Without the reggae rhythm

The 70’s opened doors to India
And business Pakistani
Well, what would be the lads night out
Without a Biryani?!

As Berlin’s wall was taken down
I wept a tear of triumph
No longer will we leave in fear 
Of those prehistoric giants 

Of xenophobia, greed and envy 
Even South Africa followed suit,
But now arise a generation 
Who gives the lot the boot!

Take a long look at your English lives 
As you dine at Swedish tables 
Watching Japanese TV’s
Drive your German car to work upon 
A hundred foreign labels!

Each wave that came has made this home 
And starting at the bottom 
Has put to shame our lazy lives 
By remembering what we’ve forgotten

Integrity comes from deep within 
From earning honest bread
From working till you are worn out
And collapsing in your bed

No restless sleep for he who works
And earns his daily crust 
But on his efforts he can lean
And on his hands he’ll trust.

The Tories stole your benefits 
They questioned if you’re able
They forced the pound to be so strong 
You struggled to lay your table

But Farage blamed all the immigrants 
Those nasty foreign scum
He said they stole your nationhood
And you believed his lying tongue.

He set the fuse and waited for
The shit to hit the fan,
And now the news,
He’s buggered off!
What a spineless little man!

P J Deakin 2016©

Nether Field

Not the Bakers field 
Or the town of Carl
Not the Gelding misspelled 
Nor Loud ham or ley of Lambs  
Not the Calver Town or the Red clay cliff

But… the nether field
You know? The lower one,
The one that floods!
The one where all the trains go to unload all their pile of goods

No cosy nook of Joyce and Bert 
Or Southerly minster well 
No ford placed west of Bridge for me
Nor Thorpe of Gun to tell…

But a village built fast 
Industrial revolution 
When the industry went
It just left wild confusion

Such a maelstrom of people 
From diverse situation 
Makes for such embittered folks 
In dark times of inflation

Single parents, congregate 
Natter over garden wall
Refugees seek solace here
Maybe it is peaceful after all!

Six o’clock the bus stop’s full 
Of lipstick, heels and pecs
Who leave behind this no hope town 
And it’s Mapperley rejects

Charlie Red potent up on top floor
Of the old faithful green number 20
Their LBD’s glitzy as they head off to Ritzy
To dance and drink MD2020

Left behind, Beggars, drunks and layabouts
And kids who want to play about
Behind the old community centre
And boys like me who still climb trees 
In search of some adventure.

Window cleaner cases houses
To know which ones to rob
Dole queue stretches round the block 
Cos no one’s got a job

Towns of industry
Hubs of community
Left behind till Retail Park revived

So offspring of the factory girls 
Walk aisles with cheese and chives
And top up Pringles on the shelves 
Now that Morrisons has arrived.

And still the cries of drunken yells
Seep deep into the night
As fearless yob rolls up his sleeves 
For Friday’s Fight Night Fight

And as I close my eyes to hear 
Another drunken groan
I smile, 

Perfect it may never 
But Netherfield is my home

P J Deakin 2016 ©

Don’t Lump for Trump!

If I lived in AmericaI wouldn’t vote for Trump
I’d rather vote for Pootle 
In fact, any of The Flumps 
Than sit and twiddle with my thumbs
And watch that redneck lump…

I couldn’t let him have that power
And stand by like a chump!
I couldn’t idly watch that businessman
The US economy gazzump

With his modern take on Nazi prose 
Where African or Mexican can legally be thumped
When I look back on our history 
Consider Hitler, I’m stumped 

As to how a man with so evil an agenda
Could rise to power, yet Trump
Blames all the problems on the Muslims 
And Mexicans who jump

Across the void of poverty 
To make a life like Gump
Where shackles can be overcome 
And you don’t end on your rump 

But Mr Toupee wants to take your dreams
And throw them in the dump
For two centuries your great nation built 
On immigration pump
Yet now you say enough’s enough
You’re greedy and a grump!

The end is nigh, the eagle high 
Lies quivering in a clump
Because of evil, selfish agendas
Of that wicked Mr Trump!

P J Deakin 2016©

Ode to Anon.

You were the faceless voice
Standing just behind the curtain
Yours were the views and yours were the cues
That let us know for certain

The quotes that shaped our world perspective
Make one become somewhat reflective

Invisible, your voice rings loud
Across the annals of history
But how else would we have heard the voice
Of the learnéd wise, this mystery?

For in her wisdom she, Anon
Strove not for that she could not win
But chose instead to subtly make her statements heard

Through unsigned notes and letters stirred
The hearts and minds of generations
With her insightful observations
With nom-de-plume eponymous
She signed her name “Anonymous”

P J Deakin 2016 ©

Tigguo Cobuac – Nottingham, City of Caves

Paved with white stone edifice
The modern city stands sublime
The slabs of square and dome stand proud
Imposing limestone skyline
Forms the Queen of Midlands’ crown

  
Architecture neo-classic
Defines the city we all love
But there’s so much more to Nottingham
Than what exists above!

Tigguo Cobuac
The City made of Caves
A labyrinthine network
Of subterranean space

Beer cellar and tannery
Preserved in sandstone rock
Our excavations stalagmite
Reach down, uncover treasure
Their secrets locked so stalactite
Have scarcely to be measured

A steady drip of passing time
From cave-dweller to Viking mine
Each dark Victorian hostelry
Who carved their place in history
Forgotten streets whose names remain

Old Drury Hill thro’ cobbled streets
Thread paths which looked like “Ripper’s”
Those tiny houses in whom lived
A thousand little nippers

Relegated to history
By council regulation
The winding streets of yesteryear
Now, concrete conurbation

Phil Deakin 2015 ©