IF I SHOULD EVER LOSE YOU NOW...

You are my very precious friend,
You mean so much to me.
If I should ever lose you now,
So unhappy I would be.

We've been together so many years,
We've had our ups and downs,
If I should ever lose you now,
You'd turn my smiles to frowns.

The years keep passing day by day,
Our lives they do unfold,
If I should ever lose you now,
There's a story to be told.

MR MOLE

Magical, mystical, mysterious mole,

His house hides hidden, here's his hole.

The tracks they take the tractor tills,

Makes Mr Mole make more molehills.

THE HILLS

The mist has gone, the hills are back,
Once they were green, now they are black.
The dowdy heather, looks so forlorn,
The whitewashed farmhouse all alone.

The silhouette of gnarled old tree,
Stands alone for us to see.
The single track to mountain's top,
The block of trees the wind to stop.

The snow-white dots of hardy sheep,
The dry-stone walls downhill they creep.
The mist's now back, hills disappear,
But still I hold their image dear.

THE US PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION 2008**

For what seems an eternity we (in England) have been bombarded on TV and in the newspapers by an endless barrage of "The US Presidential Election."

Democrats, Republicans, Primaries, I still don't understand what these mean, even after all this time. Why does it go on for ever? In England all it takes is someone pushing a leaflet through your letterbox which says,
"Please vote for ...",
the following coming up on your TV screen three times,
"And now a party political broadcast on behalf of the .......... party",
and finally, 25% of the population (if it's a fine day), one Thursday, walk round to the polling station, usually in the nearest school hall, you are given a voting slip, then you stand in a rickety plywood booth and put your cross against a name. That's it!
It's all over, and nobody really cares who wins anyway, for we will only complain about whoever it is and swear not to vote for them again.

But not in America, oh no, John "crack" Cocaine or Ali "big ears" Barba only have to go shopping and they attract a bigger crowd than we do for the FA Cup Final (mind you it's probably more entertaining"). Can you imagine English people doing that? They shout and cheer, wave cardboard banners in the air and all the candidates do is pull the other one to pieces. And another thing, they are always smiling! Can you imagine Gordon Brown smiling or that other one, whatever his name is.

I cannot take the two candidates seriously. Every time I see McCain I crack out laughing for I always have a mental image of James Cagney portraying Al Capone saying "oooh you dirty rat" and as for "those ears" on Ali Barba.

Not long to go now and it will all be over and Ali Barba (I hope) will be the 44th president of The US of A, except for the next two months there will be re-counts and re-counts of re-counts until the four years is nearly up and it's time to start all over again. Bet George Washington is up there, a little smirk on his face, thinking to himself, "what the hell have I started?"

PRECIOUS MOMENTS

The morning light comes shining through,
And with it are my thoughts of you.
Precious moments, count each one,
For very soon they will be gone.

THE SOUNDS OF MORNING

The rustle of paper, the crunching of toast,
These are the morning sounds of which I hate most.
I wake up sleepy not feeling my best,
These are the sounds that my patience do test.

Not wanting to talk I hide away,
But the person that's with me is awake and gay.
To try and halt the noise I dread,
I think I'll just go back to bed.

THE PREFAB

The prefab houses stark and grey,
In my childhood memories they do stay.
My earliest days when I was young,
To vivid pictures of them I've clung.

The corrugated profiled roof,
Was always there throughout my youth.
The iron windows, the twisted one,
Thick with ice of winters gone.

Lupins and marigolds in the garden we grew,
Of cabbage and turnips we had quite a few.
The man right across a hen hut he had,
He’d keep us in eggs, some good and some bad.

The little kitchen warm and cosy,
The blackleaded range your cheeks would make rosy.
The big white sink so deep and wide,
She kept it clean, my mothers pride.

The living room so cold and bare,
Just one small fire threw out its glare.
The oak sideboard with plates and mugs,
The bare black floor with old peg rugs.

The inside toilet (weren't we posh),
When people saw it they said “gosh”!
A bathroom too is what we had,
A weekly bath was not too bad.

A bedroom to myself I had,
When growing up this made me glad.
A bed and a toy box were all that were there,
No pictures on wall and floor so bare.

And then one day my mum did say,
In the prefab we’d no longer stay.
Around the corner we would go,
To 49 at the end of the row.

HEAD IN THE WINDOW

There’s a head in the window in the house cross the street,
Though it’s been there for ages we’ve still yet to meet.
It’s there in the morning and it’s there in the night,
It’s there in the dark and it’s there in the light.

He’s working from home his living to make,
He’s at his computer with never a break.
With Bluetooth a’blinking and mobile so hot,
He’s working so hard to make cash for the pot.

He strides up and down with his hands all a flap,
His mouth keeps on going I feel I should clap.
I wish I could hear the words that he says,
For those are the ones that his wages it pays.

And then one day the head is not there,
I’d knock on his door if only I dare.
I fear for his safety and hope he’s not ill,
Till a neighbour tells me he’s gone off to Rhyll.

MY DARLING

I feel her gaze upon my face, her warm touch upon my skin,

My body yearns so much for her, her love I long to win.

I’ll lie with her these many hours, until the day is done,

And through the night I’ll dream of her, my darling, lovely, Sun.

And when the morrow breaks, and once more she calls to me,

We’ll be together once again, for all the world to see.