Number 17, Delusions

Today is Sunday 13th May, so there has been a short gap in attendance to my blog.  I have been writing during this time, but not something I am ready to publish.  I wrote the first chapter of the aforementioned story of truth and lies.  But it is still a draft.

Friday11th May was my birthday, is my birthday, has always been my birthday.  I had to work during the day, and we had a few friends over for the evening.  I read a couple of rhymes on demand, but wrote nothing.  There is something else remarkable about May 11th.  Apart from on one of my birthdays that I spent in Australia, in their Autumn, it has never rained on me.  It has been so reliable that I confidently predict a dry and mainly sunny day every year.  I should really lay bets on it.  This year especially, since it was chucking it down right up to the 10th.  Then, right on cue, I woke up on Friday with the sun streaming in.  Perhaps this should be geographically identified as it might not be the case everywhere.  I live in West Sussex, and we do generally enjoy the most clement weather in the UK, on average, but even so, for fifty five years it has remained dry on May 11th to the best of my recollection. After this year's abrupt change to sunny conditions, even my skeptical wife is starting to recognise the phenomenon.

Number 17,  with 348 to go.  

This one possibly counts as two, because on 26th May I almost doubled its length after using it as my first effort at a video recording.  I realised that when read, some of the relevance to the people mentioned wasn't very clear, and I enjoyed adding a bit of a rant. Rants are fun. The lengthened version appears at number 26.  Soon, when I have perfected the necessary techniques I shall have all these on U-tube under the name of Behind the Wheel, assuming the name hasn't been taken already.

Delusions.

I met a woman in the pub
Who interfered with my grub;
She didn’t stick a fork in it,
But simply spoiled my eating it.

Sometimes you want to be alone
To gnaw upon a lunchtime bone,
But now and then a chat is great,
Especially if it’s with a mate.

Not when the chat is with a bore,
Who keeps on talking, more and more
About the people who she claims
She knows and tells me all their names.

What do I think about poor Andy?
She asks me since she’s found me handy.
And now Rebekkah, James as well;
So many friends are going through hell.

Lord this, Sir that and Lady thing,
Jeremy Hunt gave her a ring.
“I told him that he should beware”
I told her that I didn’t care.

There are no tears in my eyes,
I’m sorry I don’t sympathise
With all these elevated fools,
When, oh dear, they break the rules.

Title does not me impress,
Fancy gongs or fancy dress.
Honest work, and modest pride
Are best, just knowing that you tried.

Two things only separate
The rich and poor, I can relate.
The rich are richer, that’s quite clear,
The other one is something queer.

It is delusion, nothing less;
The fact they think that they are best.
VIPs with power exclusive
Superiority is delusive!

How can simply having more,
(Something I tried to ask the bore)
Make yours a more important life
Than someone with financial strife?

We are all people, good and bad
Some have, some haven’t, others had
But ‘better’s down to good behaviour
Having money’s no-one’s saviour.

Tradesmen’s entrance round the back,
Call me Sir or get the sack.
Be grateful for the little I pay you,
What’s your name, do I even know you?

Out of my way, I’m coming through!
I’m more important, more than you.
Put it there, see the cook,
I’ve got a flight to France to book.

Title, Schmitle, even a crown
Are nothing, when you strip us down.
Human beings in the buff
Are all the same, and that’s enough!

© Stephen Saunders

To book Steph'nonsense for a rhyming evening:
bowleyfarm@gmail.com or 01428 741212

Agent / publisher wanted.