TIME WAITS FOR NO MOUSE.

Time waits for no mouse.

Though the mice and the men make the greatest of plans,

We can't fashion the fate which is out of our hands.

We can add up the numbers and circle a date,

But frustration and anguish will batter the gate.

When your walls are built thick and supplies have been stowed,

You're repelling the siege but the debt is still owed.

You've signed up to a promise that someone else made,

You have greased up the wheel, the machine has been paid.

Now you're out of control and you're trapped on the ride,

And your fingers are crossed, looking out from inside.

You're reliant on everyone doing their part,

This seems far more grown up than it did at the start.

Every day I await a majestic report,

A reward for my practice of positive thought.

When disaster and bliss can both share the same air,

At a paradox party, I've nothing to wear.

When the targets keep moving it's hard to relax,

There's a glimmer of light but it quickly retracts.

I keep hoping that everything works itself out,

But there's always that place where I harbour a doubt.

I remember when time was a bountiful gift,

There were months upon months for the mountain to shift.

But the days drift away and the hurdles remain,

And my ears hear the echo of every grain,

As it falls from the timer and heralds concern

By the envelope bulging with language to learn.

If there's something to glean for the man and the mouse,

There is nothing so stressful as buying a house. ,

Four times Four

Four times Four.

I think I see the horsemen come,

We have to turn the final page.

It's pointless now to turn and run,

From sixteen legged violent rage.

We had to turn the final page,

The ending can't be turned away.

This sixteen legged violent rage,

Cannot be stopped or held at bay.

The ending can't be turned away,

The darkness merging Earth and sky.

We shall be stopped and held at bay,

It's us or them, and they can't die.

The darkness merging Earth and sky,

Is spreading up and left and right.

It's us or them, and they can't die,

It's they who come to stretch the night.

It's spreading up and left and right,

As chaos rips the tended ground.

I see who comes to stretch the night,

I see their hate at what they've found.

As chaos rips the tended ground,

The wounds that come are quick and deep.

I see the hate at what they've found,

 I see the waves so dark and steep.

The wounds that come are quick and deep,

The place we knew is ripped apart.

I hear the waves so dark and steep,

That vie to be the beating heart.

The place we knew is ripped apart,

The light has gone, the world is blind.

We vied to be the beating heart,

Our master race of human kind.

The light has gone, the world is blind,

I think I hear the horsemen come.

Our master race of human kind,

It's pointless now to turn and run.

HOME.

Home

I need to find myself a home.

To start I'll need my own full stop.

I want to use my own front door,

By turning round my perfect key.

I'll put my things just where I like,

I'll paint it black if that's my want.

A place for me is all I want.

Don't need to borrow someone's home.

I'll fill it with the things I like,

No one to make me change or stop.

My happiness will have its key.

My opening will have a door.

I'll shut the world behind my door.

I'll plant a tree, and if I want,

I'll find a place to hide a key,

In case I'm locked out of my home.

I'll build a place where time can stop,

And stock the fridge with things I like.

I won't allow what I don't like,

So mushrooms won't get through the door.

I want a place where friends can stop,

I'll make them tea, and if they want,

They can stay over in my home.

A house is home, and that's the key.

I could just give my friends a key,

And they could come round when they like.

I want my guests to feel at home,

As soon as they come through the door.

The simple things are all I want,

So complication needs to stop.

That limbo world can also stop,

I think I have the magic key,

That has the power, should I want,

To fill my world with things I like.

The things that only I adore,

Because it's no one else's home.

I'll have to stop what I dislike,

I'll lose the key to my old door,

As all I want is my new home.

VIRTUAL PAIN.

Virtual Pain.

It's true that life is easier with our technology,

But here's a glimpse inside my world, how things can often be.

Sometimes I fucking hate my phone, I want to cave it in,

I'd use a hammer, smash and smash, then toss it in the bin.

Although I'd soon regret my actions, that would make it worse,

I'd wish I had a time machine and set it to reverse.

Computers are the ultimate in torturous technique,

I'd love to throw mine at the wall from once to twice a week.

,But then I'd sit there breathing deep surrounded by the bits,

Just wishing that I wasn't prone to violent techno fits.

And now we need a password. One for every bloody site,

You may well even get locked out if characters aren't right.

It used to be, a single word would get you out the dark,

But now we need an upper case and exclamation mark.

It's fair to say that generally, my TV's good as gold,

But then they launch technology that makes my TV old.

Occasionally by accident I'll sit on my remote,

Then spend the day deciphering what tiny swirls denote.

Each button has a purpose but you never use a few,

So how am I supposed to know what fucking buttons do.

Mechanic brains are spreading like a virus in our lives,

The pubs will have I-rinals and we'll sleep with robot wives.

The things they make can do our jobs, and do them twice as well,

There's only one direction and it's down to cyber hell.

A RECIPE FOR DISASTER.

A recipe for disaster.

If you think that it's easy to write then you're wrong,

Why don't you have a go? Why don't you make a song?

You will first need some chords. Are there many you know?

Three or four would suffice, then you're ready to go.

It is probably best that you ponder a bit,

How to join it all up so your song isn't shit.

You will also need lyrics, and rhymes for the words,

I can fly I'm so high in the sky with the birds.

If you have any class you'll avoid lines like that,

It's been done, it's a cliché, you'll sound like a twat.

All your words should have meaning and mean what they say,

And don't crucify sense putting words the wrong way.

You will need several verses, they can't be the same,

And a chorus that's catchy including the name,

Of your song, but that isn't a rule carved in stone,

And remember the song must be one of your own.

If it sounds just a little like something I know,

I shall burnish my smugness by laying it low.

Now it's time to record. Do you know how that's done?

We'll need mic's and some leads and some software to run.

We'll use buses and plug-in's, auxiliary tracks,

We'll use XLr midi and quarter inch jacks.

I would layer guitars so the sound becomes big,

I will edit and tweak I will nudge and rejig.

Pan the keys to the left and the bass to the right,

Making tiny adjustments, stay up through the night.

When the process has taken up hours and days,

After countless remixing in various ways.

We can master and bounce so the parts become one,

It's the end of the journey, it's finally done.

As my finger is poised to come down on the mouse,

There's a crash as a meteor lands on my house.