***
Norp, Norp, happy Norp, cartwheels through the fields.
He sings his song and, in his hand, his magic timepiece wields.

What makes you so happy, Norp? Is it fresh green grass?
Or fresh green summer memories of fun that has to pass?

Happy, happy, what to do? That greenness makes me sad.
It’s green for you, it’s green for me, but you don’t see it’s bad.

Sit, Norp, think of all the things you’ll never be.
You won’t go back to what you were: a babe on mother’s knee.

Sit, Norp, sit awhile, watch the buzzard soar.
Could you fly like him and then be happy even more?

Norp, don’t even listen to my moaning or my gloom!
Keep plunging through the willow herb and love its summer bloom!

Happy for the moment is as happy as you’ll be
So cartwheel onward, take no note of harsh and bitter me.

Watch the bees, the happy bees, cast shadows in the lime –
Your timepiece, magic as it is, will never change the time.

***
Come, my friends, we know each other little
But sweep such thoughts aside with cool pretence:
Without inclusion, how to be inclusive?
Yes, therein lies the key to self-defence.

But just to link together’s not sufficient
To whittle down to naught our spineless foe.
He still looks up in hope we might take pity:
Yes, clearly there is much he does not know.

So let us put on footwear much too large
And, unified by individual dreams,
Raise a giant foot and, very slowly –
Yes, crush the little man to smithereens.

Thank heavens for the meek: they make it easy
To identify and neatly plug the hole
In all our egos, meaning that, together,
We can satisfy our common little goal.

***
I shimmer above
The clutches of love.
Emotions just leave me confused.

People are pawns
In the chess game of life
To be freely discarded or used.

I never conform
To the heavenly norm –
My behaviour is styled on itself

And living’s what grips me.
I’ve no burning need
For earthly possessions or wealth.

Contentment is knowing
My aura is growing
And others are left in my wake.

Let them never see through me
- I know that they can’t -
Because power is simple to fake.

***
Your life is a dream, a miraculous scene
Of Porsches and portable phones.
Your face is unblemished,
A lightly-tanned structure
Of beautifully angular bones.

You’re using your brain for material gain,
Your charm and good looks serve you well
But are your friends friends?
Or fair-weather friends?
And how could you possibly tell?

And there by your side is your near-perfect bride
Who laughs when your jokes are not funny.
I know she’d much rather
Curl up beside me,
I suppose she’s just after your money.

And thus, to the end, to myself I pretend
That I’d thoroughly hate to be you.
I’ll drink till I’m blue
And not do what you do
But one day I’ll know what I say is not true.

Your witty retorts cause me envious thoughts,
My envious thoughts turn to sorrow.
I hate you, I hate you,
I hate you and hope
That a bus runs you over tomorrow.

***
Sweet Lisa drowns the modern man
In gushing perspiration.
His eyes are tempted to ignore
The need for trepidation.

She breaks the rippled peacefulness
Of life’s sweet pleasure cruise
With verbal volleys, loud and harsh –
And laughs at what ensues.

Sweet Lisa’s words wring out my brain
And stamp upon my nerves –
But still her sweetness battles on:
She wins me with her curves.

***
I walked into the party
With a pretty girl in tow.
Her rosy cheeks were hearty
But her bosom stole the show.

The merry throng glanced over
To see what route she’d take:
I pushed her through before me
And followed in her wake.

I introduced my lady
To our shiny-headed host.
He smiled; she giggled sweetly,
As I’d say she would with most.

I didn’t like his manner.
He got on much too well
With my angel-eyed companion
As far as I could tell.

He contradicted proudly
Everything I had to say,
So I simply farted loudly
And quickly moved away.

***
I always smile nicely
And play by the rules
And as a result
Am surrounded by fools.

My tongue is too floppy,
My thoughts remain hid.
With my dearth of directness
I'll never be rid

Of car-crazy cretins
And lager-lout loons,
Name-dropping ninnies
And brainless buffoons.

To escape from this onslaught,
To shrug off this curse
I hope I need only write
One simple verse.

But of course they'll not hear me.
They'll read what I write
And express their distress
At my terrible plight.

But just in case: Fools!
You all make me sick.
Your mouths are too wide
And your skulls are too thick

And the space that you fill
- and I'm only being fair -
Is better employed
By ten gallons of air.

What I do's not better
And yes, I may moan,
But at least, very kindly,
I leave you alone.

***
I take in my hand my favourite brush
And with it embellish my face,
Splashing with colour the flashes of grey
While keeping the features in place.

And people can see my sparkling eyes,
My loveable grin and my frown.
My brushwork has earned me their fondest regard -
They long for such common renown.

The colours are visible widely enough
But clash with the tones of my heart
So when will my canvas reflect what is real
And cease to be popular art?

***
My love is a medley of memories,
A photo, a letter, no more
But it burns on from winter to winter
- for so long now I've wondered what for.

I have to confess I've been heartless
At times: what a weight off my chest
I have felt when I've turned away from that love
And denied, and ignored, and suppressed.

But hope has returned like a spectre,
Like a goodly foreteller of truth
Thus I lay myself down before fortune,
Obeying the dictates of youth.

And surely you see that I have to?
For a heart as sincere as the sun
And a tentative smile like the first summer glow
With its promise of reckless fun.

For a while I can stem the torrent
But suddenly, out it pours -
Take it or leave it, whatever you choose,
The whole of my heart is yours.