Third batch of proper manly poems.

DEATH AND OTHER HASSLES.

Every few months or so,
(But at least once each year)
I meet with friends from way back when
And we hug and bite back tears.

One of us in a wooden box,
All the others gathered round.
And then we either burn that box
Or we put it underground.

Then we reminisce and take the piss
And raise a glass or two
To the newly dead departed
At their final leaving do.

Celebrate what made 'em great,
Forget they could be a twat.
It's not time for the axe to grind;
We'll rise above all that.

I don't believe in heaven
And I can't conceive a hell.
There's no angels, there's no demons,
Just this brittle human shell.

You can waste your life
Scared of your death
But it won't help you avoid it.
Or you can seize each day,
And, come what may,
You can say that you enjoyed it.

One day, I'll be in that box,
Coz we're all gonna die.
And if you turn up to wave me off,
Wear something smart and cry.


WHAT THE DICKENS?

I used to be out all night, out of my head
And completely unemployable.
Now I stay home and I say things like
"That Dickens documentary was rather enjoyable."

I always thought I would live fast, die young,
Like some rock'n'roll tornado.
Now I'm 46, got a dodgy hip
And a touch of arthritis ( or maybe lumbago).

And though I kid myself that I'm still punk rock,
All wild at heart and reckless,
Did Sid and Nancy worry about fibre, do you think?
Did it screw their day if they missed breakfast?

And while I'm horrified by this expanding girth
Since I gave up them narcotics,
At least I'm not grey, and hey anyway,
These tiny tits are quite erotic.

So if I've learnt one thing from this middle age,
It's that all of us get fatter.
But my brain's alright and I can still still spout shite,
And in the end, man, that's all that's ever mattered.