Old England’s ghosts,
Sailed on a salted sea of tears,
That drip from every monument,
Each brick mortared by blood and bone.
Of people stolen from their home.
Old England’s ghosts,
Rode on crimson waves,
A bitter ebb and flow,
Sugar then cotton bled them dry,
Lives drained away upon the tide.
Old England’s ghosts,
Are waiting, restless, still,
Memories wrought of flesh and iron,
For the sea that bore their pain,
Can never wash away the stain.
It says here,
That a better world is possible.
Amid the pages,
We dream.
Great authors tell us,
What we know in our bones.
If we stacked these tomes end to end.
We might reach the very moon we strive for.
Think on the height,
And weight,
Of ambition,
How can we not be more?
There was a boy who simply would not,
Use a hankie to catch his snot.
His parents would constantly issue
A mandate to use a tissue:
“You’re all bunged up, you’ll get a cough,
Have a blow, we’ve had enough!”
But no matter how they implored,
Their pleas would simply go ignored.
Then, one day he couldn’t take the load,
One final sniff made his head explode.
“Well, my boy, you’ve only yourself to blame,”
Dad said, “he won’t do that again!”
Oh Mum, thank you,
For not losing you cool,
When telling me, again, to tidy my room,
Mum you’re the best,
But, somehow, I still can’t tidy my mess.
Oh Mum, I appreciate,
The way you kiss every scrape,
Even after telling me, calm down, don’t go ape,
Mum, you always, ever,
Make me feel a lot better.
Oh Mum, I will always try,
To be the apple of your eye,
Sometimes I’ll fall short, but don’t sigh.
It won’t be for lack of effort,
So much as thought.
