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The truth, The whole truth. . . it's nothing like the truth
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Hark the cash-point bells do ring Listen to each assistants sing
Peace on earth while you're beguiled
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You loved me first as a sweet young miss,
Never laughing at my mumbled words and fumbled kiss.
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I confess that I am hooked on this stuff If I can’t get enough I start to feel rough.
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So I always make a great effort
Among phrases to make the right choice,
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For what will I be remembered when I leave this land behind?
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I feel your silent presence in the shade beneath the trees. I hear your shallow breathing in the sussurating leaves.
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Relaxing on a balmy summer evening – work done – pressure off and no clouds on my horizon.
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Memory is a funny thing, it plays it’s own giddy games.
It maintains a great store of faces but throws out all the names.
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Sat in a tent while someone sings a song and we’re all joining in to help the chorus along
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War is crazy, war is mad
War is cruel, war is sad
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Our breath coming in ragged gasps, our legs pumping with mechanical efficiency but questionable precision.
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You’re in the middle of your favourite song When things start to go dreadfully wrong.
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Oh we were an evil bunch gathered in that pub just after Sunday lunch.
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The great Lady had gone to church to pray –
For a new bed-partner whilst her Lord was away.
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Today I went to the hospital and I saw
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She who once danced on the bright ocean's waves
Tethered and shackled like the meanest of slaves.
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Another contest! Well actually it’s two
And both from poets I like to view.
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Lines flit though my mind
I jot then down in my book
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Ideas flit through my mind
Hastily I jot then down
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There’s a new craze that’s plaguing my dreams.
People inventing silly poetic schemes.
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When I reached fifty I thought what I'd do
Before I joined the pension queue.
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For he is a sentient creature
And he lives in a caring community.
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A cruel old man in his white flannel suit
Wrapping the world in a clean soft sheet
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Come indulge in innocent pleasure gathering gifts we can always treasure. Wandering o'er some fell or moor, harvesting bounty from Gaia's store.
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I wish they wouldn't do it, It really isn't fair.
Pensioner pedestrians and push-bikes are not made to share.
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Well I've been a folk singer for many a year
And I've sung lots of songs with finger in ear.
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Your ancestors and I were content
We co-existed in harmony.
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The newscasters are making a terrible fuss,
London commuters can’t get a bus.
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