With A Beak

(another maybe for RDDC)

It's a bonny night to be a penguin
Dancing and a-surfing all day long
They don't have to do
Any performance reviews
We've got our way of being all a-wrong

I want to have myself some breakfast
I want to have a tattie scone
I want to have myself some breakfast
And eat 'til all the pain is gone

To be a thing with a beak
I want to be a thing with a beak

It's a bonny night to be a starling
In your murmuration way up high
No ifs and no buts
No education cuts
You can't be austere with the sky

I want to have myself a pub quiz
I want to have myself a try
I want to have myself a pub quiz
And maybe even win first prize

To be a thing with a beak
I want to be a thing with a beak

It's a bonny night to be a bastard
It's a bonny night to be a cad
We are all encouraged
To steal sandwiches
And rain a rain of shit upon the land

I want to have myself some whisky
I want to have a single malt
I want to have myself some whisky
We know that it's the government's fault

To be a thing with a beak
I want to be a thing with a beak

Lakeside World Darts Championship

(If RDDC can accept this song then the music world is in serious trouble)

You seemed so unimpressed
With our first date at Laserquest
The sweat and pre-pubescents
A mixture you found unpleasant
(You must get enough of that as a maths teacher)
I will appeal to your romantic side
And promise you a walk to the Lakeside
What could be more romantic
Than athletes and mathematics?

Lakeside World Darts Championship
Cupid's arrows never miss
Lakeside World Darts Championship
Oh those arrows are going to hit

Thought about the Amex, thought about bingo
All the exciting places that other people go

I know you like numbers and I like sport
This is the ideal place to court

There are 180 ways
To say “I Love You” to your face

But a trip to Frimley for you and I
Is the best way for me to hit the bullseye

I'm going to step up to the oche
Hoping for a little bit of tonsil hockey

Lakeside World Darts Championship
Cupid's arrows never miss
Lakeside World Darts Championship
Oh those arrows are going to hit

The first thing that you're going to do
When you go back to school
Is begin this little mission;
Hand over a home-made petition

To the head-teacher

In an attempt to beseech her

To install darts as part of
the Maths and PE syllabuses
And if that fails then at least
There's wrestling at Hove Town Hall in two weeks

Lakeside World Darts Championship
Cupid's arrows never miss
Lakeside World Darts Championship
Oh those arrows are going to hit

"The Fluidity of language" - draft 1

“Sticks and stones may break my bones

But names will never hurt me,”

Cool story, bro,
No one ever bled from being called a bastard,

But consider

the fluidity of language:

Throwing a glass full of words into someone's face

May annoy or upset at the most,

But words fired from high-powered cannon,

200 gallons of words a minute by

Men in protective clothing

Can knock down and injure.

Throwing words about casually in the back-garden

On a warm summer's evening

Can make a mess, ruin clothing at the most,

(It's all laughter amongst friends)

But words poured over a cloth covering

The victim's face and

Blocking the breathing passages

Can cause

Physical damage
And

Psychological damage
And

Death.

Words erode,

They drag and tear,

Coastlines collapse into swirling crumbs,

Dripping syllables onto the forehead

Bore a hole into the brain,

Words have a weight

As heavy as history,

And if enough are amassed upon you then

This weight drowns and suffocates

Leaving a body on the ocean floor,

Rusting disintegrating sediment.

Beware;

Lips are floodgates,

Letting loose fifty metre high torrents

Crashing onto foreign shores

Destroying homes and lives and

Those things that have taken years

Of careful nurturing and cultivation

To grow into beauty.

Sticks and stones may break my bones

But waves break me completely.

Collaboration #1

Sunrise like a cabbage,
Cliff Richard reaching a fab age,
He stretched and called Morrissey
Who was visiting Battersea,
Enquiring about a rakish boxer,
And people thought him a cat lover!
"Steve," trilled Cliff, "what are you up to?
Anything fun? And can I come to?"
"Mr. Richard," Moz said, "what joy it would be,
If you would join me at the Ritz for tea."
So Cliff threw on a salmon suit
With a cool mustard necktie to boot,
And dashed along to catch the next train,
Hoping Morrissey's ardour hadn't waned.
But lo! Fickle Steven disapproved
Of the way the garments' colours moved.
He took his leave abruptly like a full stop,
Leaving Cliff, with the boxer in a strop,
Outside a poorly-stocked HMV,
Mourning the tragic passing of humanity.

C. Sissons & J. McIntosh