The Brits & Silence by Chris Lloyd

 

The Brits..

…. are coming, and they’ll talk a lot of tosh
they’ll talk of visions and plans but they ain’t got any dosh

the only way that they could think to help us
is by sending a worn-out double decker bus

they can’t afford to send smart bombs or many fancy tanks
so for those particular items you need to ask the Yanks

plus you’ll need to call ‘em between eleven and noon
as they’ll be in “meetings” every afternoon

they’ll try to cosy up with real world leaders
but they’re seen as a country of pleaders

and they firmly believe in getting paid lots of cash
by talking very posh and selling oil and gas

and as any struggling person knows
they seem to enjoy cutting energy, especially when it snows

we are all members of that former exalted clan
but we are tired, pissed off and in need of a viable plan

no more corrupt cops or MP’s abusing rules and watching porn
they should fully expect to be jailed and made to face our scorn

but no, they smile smugly in their high-rise ivory towers
waiting for Government to grant them ever more powers

So, as always… IT’S ALL ABOUT THE MONEY
(but not for the many)
now ain’t that effin’ funny

©Christopher Lloyd

Silence

The Smell of Silence

creeps over re-written history,
its invisible, sour aroma
catching breaths, cloying unbidden
to desperate, worn-out survivors who search
because….
they have to know.

it colludes, clings to hair, clothes, skin.
no matter how they try to
rid themselves of it,
they will remember
until each of them
ceases to exist.

The Song of Silence

rattles and screeches as I bang air drums,
torture air guitars, mash air saxophones  
to thunderous applause of thirty thousand
at the isle of wight.

it plays out every night,
every hour, every sleeping minute
and I never perform a bad set.

without warning
an angel appears sitting,
tapping her feet.
she signs me that it was my last gig.

The Silence of Silence

came plundering, wrecking
the last remnant of hearing,
my last journey in sound.

it swooped in, left in seconds,
locked its door.

The Realisation of Silence

“What did you say?”
“What……”
“Oh f***.”

©Christopher Lloyd