The Smiley People
You can tell who we are
It's us who are singing
To the beat of a different drum
Whilst everyone is noticing.
We are oblivious to the crowd in our ways of expression
Much to their chagrin and tension.
We are the dreamers, artists and pioneers
The musicians, writers and seers
In a sea of 'all right' instead of waters far from bright.
They are too scared to see our hive of activity.
They are struck by their creativity.
Our poetry's deep and ethereal
Our drawings are bold and colourful.
You can tell who we are; we are sometimes introspective,
We often see things from a different perspective,
Entranced by the moquette of '80s 'buses
Of orange sprinkles on black cushions
Or two tone orange tartans on Leyland Atlanteans.
Maybe you'll see us, busking in town centres,
Conversing on '60s architecture
Or travelling far and wide in search of [Class 40] Whistlers.
We'll be whistling Supertramp till kingdom come
And 'The Birdie Song' before we are done.
They'll mind, though you will find, we wouldn't mind
As they left their sense of fun behind.
Their 'music of being' has DRM.
To them, 'Dreamer', off key is mayhem.
We need to whistle, we need to sing,
I wish for one day they could do their own thing...
Then we could all become the smiley ones...
They Sold Me A Hospital On Pawn Shop Interest Rates
They said the wards were leaking and ageing.
The end result were nurses bickering
And the patients were moaning with the visitors complaining.
The wing was built only five years,
The older centre, from the 1920s was more robust,
With the gaffs besmirching the local trust.
The current centre was built on the never never,
The local trust said treatment will be better,
But the beds are hard and far fewer,
Than the ones in the seventy year old predecessor's.
I was told that there was no other deal.
£200 million? You sure that it's for real?
In the good old days, from the public sector,
The price of this structure would be much cheaper
And the quality would be higher.
The so called cheaper way was more expensive,
Several times over to the taxpayer,
As the money stays in Jersey, instead of Westminster,
At the cost to the future chancellor, whose predecessor
Bought a hospital on the never never
With a high interest store card
Where making the payments are hard,
Due to the interest, which is at best, extortion.
So the chancellor thought he would favour the taxpayer
By buying a hospital on plastic, till he defaulted on the payments
And sent the bill to his consultants.
In the red for an overpriced shed,
They decided to spread the payments longer and pay an admin fee,
For a loan (or rather) overpriced mortgage
That would take an age to repay.
So the slate will pass to future generations
As each building costs next to billions.
Even the price of changing a light bulb or heating installation
Demands a hefty fee for consultation.
Worst of all, in the contract stipulation
The building must remain in unchanged condition
Regardless of the trust or council's volition.
Even if the building's use has expired, the buildings must remain intact,
As they are tied to this contract;
An £80 million ball and chain with little gain to the public sector,
Where the project manager is King, Queen and self appointed dictator.
I picked up a paper that conjured up these myths:
That the average Metro reader seemed to be a centre-right winger
With commuter angst forming their views;
They seem to be the target consumers of the 'Salads Plus' menu
Or serial desk lunchers whose dinner hours are down by three quarters;
They seem to work in soulless 1960s offices
And live in stereotyped, cloned detached houses,
Down in Worplesdon, minutes away from London.
This is what they call the typical urbanite
Who sulk in call centres under fluorescent tubes.
They seem to be, those commuters who are serial complainers
In the hope that this amounts to a season ticket discount.
At least it's free, though thankfully, I haven't turned Tory
And bought in to the hype and the tripe from the letters.
They think that we aspire to city centre living.
It cuts the driving and the cost of commuting
Plus it's convenient for leisure shopping.
They'll think we'll like this bar, or test this new car,
Though the 'paper's just as trendy as a service station polo shirt from Frankley [M5].
It's workwear, dungarees, run of the mill, nothing special.
Or maybe it's a Tonka, tough and dependable, yet it presents itself as fashionable,
Like a superstore plastic sandwich, compared with those handmade.
Disposable and instantly forgettable
I'm glad I'm no urbanite.
The thought of clubbing and desk-lunching doesn't seem right.
The term is theirs, and I know for sure so far, that Manchester
Has almost abstained from this subculture
A world of packed Subways and a KFC alumnae.
I for one does not pertain to these contrived identifiers.
I'd rather be me, not a Ted Baker clad male,
Who syphons his money to National Rail,
Who gorges on superstore butties in the space of five minutes,
Three hours after Danish pastries,
Who has no life of his own, because of his compliance to false identifiers.