Hip Op

If you liked Cucumber Rhumba you might enjoy this.

Andrew Green's Poems

CEEDF698-B284-4218-A6D5-A7BC534B13C8Listen up youth to what I’m sayin’
Cos I’m long in the tooth and I ain’t playin’.
Got a gammy knee been pensioned off
I ain’t Hip Hop more like hip op.
A burden on the NHS
Wastin’ my time with guff like this.

Get me a stair lift, zimmer frame
Too old n’ stiff for party time
Kind of past it – know what I mean?’
‘Get Down with tha youth’ just ain’t my scene.
Hate Hip Hop – am more into tunes
Dodgey dad dancing – playin’ the goon.

Kind of tiresome getting old
Past your bed time, feeling cold.
Shuffle off grandad, had your day
No one’s listnin’ to what you say.
Can’t quite cut it any more
Legs are tired and feet are sore.

Listen up youth it’s comin’ to you
Ain’t gonna tell you what to do.
Just make the most of what you got

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A Merry Dance

First published June 2016 – the football got better, nothing much else has.

We cocked up the Brexit vote, 

we cocked up at football

All we want’s another beer 

and tuppence in the bureau.

 

Their face is painted red and white, 

Their shirts are made of nylon,

They drape themselves in England flags, 

sing like their a moron.

 

It’s no go the muddied oafs

England beat by Iceland.

Tears run down the English face

We slink back to our Island.

 

David Cameron he messed up, 

He hid behind the sofa

Boris Johnson made a face; 

he hit him with the poker.

Feel a pain between your ribs

Maybe you’re in Labour?

Mister Corbyn all alone

Beggared by his neighbour.

 

Cock a snook at clever folk

Don’t believe in experts

We’d rather read the Daily Mail

And sneer at cocky Herberts.

No time for city types

No time for cockneys

Cheered up the northern folk

To kick them in the Hockneys.

 

It’s three cheers from Scottish throats

It’s three cheers for Sturgeon!

England is a basket case

So send out for a surgeon.

Grandad is a bogey man

Gave away our future.

Patch it up with sticky tape

Or mend it with a suture.

 

It’s goodbye the Polski sklep.

Goodbye to summer.

The country’s going round the bend

But where’s the Polish plumber?

It’s no go the NHS

The promises mistaken.

All the nurses on a boat

And all the money’s taken.

 

It’s no go my dear true love, 

it’s no go my  poppet,

Work your hands from day to day, 

the winds will blow the profit.

The glass is falling hour by hour, 

the glass will fall forever,

But if you break the bloody glass 

you won’t hold up the weather.

 

Last verse and inspiration for this piece, Louis MacNeice, Bagpipe Music, 1938.

Hurrah for Little England

From an original version published on the eve of the Brexit vote.

 

Hurrah for Little England

She cast herself adrift

Say goodbye to Brussels

We’ll head into the mist.

 

Don’t know where we’re going

The captain’s overboard

But we won’t be ruled by foreigners

Or people from abroad.

 

We’ll resurrect our Empire

They’ll surely want us back

So it’s goodbye to the future

We’re turning back the clock.

 

No need for foreign factories

No need for all those jobs

For life will just be perfect

With all the foreigners gone.

 

We’ll reclaim all our colonies

Take America back;

Canada and New Zealand

They’ll surely all want that?

 

Goodbye foreign subsidy

That’s not what we need

Londoners will pay for us

Let’s let London bleed.

 

Goodbye banks and bankers

We don’t need city jobs

Life will just be perfect

When Britain’s on its tod.

 

It really should be easy

Why the awful fuss?

Those beastly Europeans

Make it hard for us.

 

It’s really not your business

We won’t obey your rules.

Why do you think as customers

You have the right to choose?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bring back British Summer

Let’s get out of Europe

We can’t take the heat

It’s OK for a fortnight

But now it’s got us beat.

Stop it at the border

Keep the weather out

Too hot for the English

Not what we’re about.

Jet stream out of Europe

What’s it coming to?

Sweeps across the country

Who asked me and you?

Keep your foreign weather

Leave us well alone

We don’t want your sunshine

We prefer our own.

Bring us clouds and rain again

Chance of a good moan

Hateful British weather

That we can call our own.

Weather of our choosing

Give us back control

Foreign interference

Don’t want that at all.

Old, male, pale and stale

I’m old, I’m male,

I’m pale, I’m stale

So please ignore my views.

We’ve had our chips

Been written off

Removed from public gaze.

‘That’s your lot

Enough of you

Be gone

Get out of here.’

‘Surplus to requirements

Time to leave the stage.

Crawl away and die some place

That’s all we ask of you.’

‘We want to hear new voices

Different points of view

We’re sick and tired of hearing

From the likes of you.’

‘You didn’t get a leg up

Go to private school

But look like the advantaged

So that’s enough of you.’

‘You got to have an angle

A different point of view

No one wants to hear now

From the likes of you.’

Cucumber Rhumba

6C54CD19-4A62-4936-A8C7-55ECF4FDBA2E.jpegIt’s a cucumber rhumba

Shakedown vegetable ball

She’s one hot tomato

Staked up struttin’ tall.

 

Dig those great potatoes

See them pumpkins sprawl

Vegetables a dancin’

No better sight at all.

 

There’s some fine chuck berries

Rhubarb’s gonna be wine

Apple sauce with dumplings

Fine crop harvest time.

 

Cabbage Patch percussion

Beetroot keepin’ time

Purple Sprouting, Runners

Strawberry fields; all mine.

 

Broccoli a go go

Lettuce all alone

Grandad in the veg patch

Raking out the stones.

 

Shed your inhibitions

Call a spade a spade

Do the mashed potato

Think we got it made.

Empty Barrels

They say that empty barrels

Make the loudest noise.

It’s often those who’ve lost their voice

Most desperate to shout.

You can not buy the silence

Of those who will not speak

Hear their silent screaming

Their rising fit of pique.

Hear the barrels jarring

Down the bumpy road

If you don’t hear them complaining

Just wait till they implode.

It’s not the silken voices

That strike the loudest notes

A noise will pierce the silence

The quiet ones in revolt.

It’s so hard to reason

With those who will not speak

It’s hard to turn a barrel round

That’s rolling down the street.

From my new collection on Wattpad- Male, Pale and Stale