It’s falling down, it’s falling down
the world we made is falling down
down into a hole named Abi-synia
Desolate mountaineering
when the guides have all gone home
you can’t reach them on the phone
Or the pilots, or the guppies
Lost and lonely, can you phone me
I am your Dad, your one and only
I am your father lost and lonely
The world and all its feathers phoney
I picture you smiling, making happy face
When I was seventeen I had a dream
Of what my life would be like
And it was nothing like this, no not at all
The Bridge over the River Kwai
the film in which Sir Alec Guinness dies
guinness and champagne relieves the pain
London Bridge 1973, went box-girder
replacing stone-arch bridge that replaced another
this stood 600 years, witnessed medieval murder
Before those bridges they were made of timber
before that Roman order saw them cross our border
Pontem Londoniarum falling down to find a singing game
At Leicester Square I watch from my small apex window
above the rush of celebrities and classic films, they arrive
chauffeur driven, lead-lady smitten, director bitten
Stand by your beds watch out for the reds
Holly GoLightly and the things she said, Audrey Hepburn
sophistication on the big screen became a kind of queen
Our cultural history caught like stranded wildebeest
gnu savaged at the crocodile river in the blistering sun
our sweaty horses set, our race-start gun, the finalé run
Attenborough pass the gauntlet, pass the baton on
and on. Greta Thunberg, pass to Xiye Bastida, Xiye
pass to Lesein Mutunkei watch Antarctic’s setting sons
Come daughters of the revolution and Tyrannosaurus Rex
who birthed a notion with their elemental child, their suffragettes
before the electric storm or even Greenpeace was born
All allegiances, all loyalties sworn, Sally, Sally Greensleeves
don’t ever leave me, pride of our alley, yes you mean the whole world
and all its tiny houses made out of ticky tacky
El-awrence fought for Brit-ain on the silverscreen, David Lean
upsides Arabia, Boadicea fought the Romans not for the black oil
Welsh Queen Buddug, Tee heE Lawrence, hero or agent royale ?
Polanski’s creative energy ran out much too fast
Hollywood has its demons tied to HMS Bounty’s mast
LA cinema viewers their mouths aghast
Down on Sunset Boulevard, their fifteen minutes in the sun
William Holden, Gloria Swanson their glossy tile review its in history’s can
cinemagoers view the reality of earths sadnesses, O’ the horror
Apocalypse Now bled from a heart of darkness
Joseph Conrad sat at his typewriter, tippety tap, ‘all work and no play’ ‘makes Jack dull boy’ the moon still ‘shining’ for Kubrick and King
Sydney Pollack sang a song of Af-rika, of Mozart strains and aeroplanes
Runnaway Trains, Jon Voight searching for Nazi stains in Turtle drains
Eastwood on the High Plains a Drifter moseying on down, nosing around
The starlings are in a murmuration high above the Leicester Square
Just hours before the Premiere – Judy Garland, Fred Astaire
The trees are bare where the starlings and the people stand and stare
BRITAIN HAS ITS BISCUITS
Britain Has Its Biscuits .. .
Alongside the apothecary of jars and potions
the baker’s biscuit designed to aid digestion
was accepted by the nation not bicarbonate
but by skill in appropriating diffused libations
In this regard it waits in line behind Rich Tea
as of the absorbent qualities of les bis-cuit
each regional recipe, an axiom of alchemy
that augments the modernism of our history
The character of style and taste preferred by
members of the ruling class, the Tea Biscuit
stirred in 17th century, t’was a York-shire treat
biscuit tale unwrapped t’was far from complete
Cornwall like a British daughter back in1886
began exporting its famous ‘fairings’ to order
wi’ added spice, an eastern sparkle they would travel far
across the globe, ‘gingernuts’ became a biscuit star
To celebrate the exploits of a revolutionary leader
we baked a ‘garibaldi’ – ‘dead fly’ sandwich, modelled
loosely on the eccles cake as seven years before
Guissepe visited our broken-biscuit isle in 1854
Early in the 20th century came custard creams and
bourbons, a touch of baroque with a chocolatto cloak
to steer us to Biscuitato Heaven with butter cream,
vanilla or cocoa powder, Victoriana met Mr Bojangle
This Island of Brittish Biscuit Makers creaks
many biscuits here wish to speak, have their say
double-baked and famous in their traditional way
the likes of Jaffa Cakes and Jammie Dodgers queue
They wait for their moment, a sight they are to see
lined up with purpose beside a nice cup of tea
O Britain roll your banner beat your drum, dip your t.bag
your moment for deciding is later than you think
At the behest of yon’ apothecary the nations roots
were laid amidst fair sweet potions for our potentate
like Kellogs flakes and Pepsi Cola the digestive biscuit
was created to sit on shelf twixt honey and molasses
Behind the highest spires of Britains pomp and fire
there stands a humble biscuit to whom we may retire
for while the people murmur and complain of much to do
there is loyal hobnob, sweet digestive to dunk in our brew
© edenbraytoday23.04, 2021
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