Mummy, You're A Wreck

The light pours out of mummy’s house
The lights are all left on
The doors are open, windows wide
The television’s on
Mummy’s lying on the floor
Her head propped up to see
The little figures run around
On black and whiteTV

Electric toothbrush, vacuum cleaner
Mixer all plugged in
Wires buzz while showers of sparks
Cascade from crowded plugs
Molten chocolate rivulets
Run down her big pink dress
Smears of red stuff in her hair
The whole place is a mess

I know that you are in a state
But mummy what the heck?
Mummy take a look around
Mummy you’re a wreck

The Chevrolet is four feet shorter
Than it was before
Since you came back last night
And forgot the garage door
There’s great big pink enamel flakes
Lying on the ground
The driver’s door flung open
And the radio’s playing loud

The single shining headlight
Shows the refrigerator there
It’s full of ice and bits of food
But the shelves are mostly bare
There’s pools of cake and instant soup
And stuff around the place
And there’s matching spots of stuff
Amonst the make-up on your face

I know that you are in a state
But mummy what the heck?
Mummy take a look around
Mummy you’re a wreck

Written by R. R. Dallaway

This Is Motortown

Listen; there’s a road in the sky, and the radio’s on.
She turns it up to sing ‘Reflections’.
She snaps her fingers, he stares forward.
The rubber squeals and the motorcade rolls.

Somewhere there’s a party where the radio’s on.
But don’t step off the pavement, this is Motortown.

Listen; there’s a road in the sky, and the boys are piled up.
They’re bumper to bumper.
And the howling steel sparks.
She wants to drive, to drive ‘round all night.

Somewhere there’s a party, where the radio’s on.
But don’t step off the pavement, this is Motortown.

Written by R. R. Dallaway


The Hole

There's a great big hole underneath my home
and everyone is telling me to leave it alone.
But how can I ignore it when I can't see the bottom,
I told the authorities, but I'm sure they've forgotten.

The house is now subsiding, it is perched at an angle,
I can't get compensation without a legal wrangle.
The council says it's bottomless and there's nothing they can do,
it could be an old mineshaft or a scar of World War 2.

I've heard a worrying rumour going around the town
saying that foreigners have invaded, by going underground.
I called in an expert, whose opinion I trust,
he says I have a defect in my surface crust.

A crack of splintered wood and half the floor has gone.
I'm lucky it wasn't the half that I'm standing on.
What if I just vanish into the murky vault?
Will anyone consider it could have been their fault?

Written by The Shend


The Bushes Scream While My Daddy Prunes

Daddy walks the lawn, the grass is getting long.
The trees are looking crooked and the bushes seem wrong.
He never noticed ‘til now how untidy it seemed,
he frowns thinking how his garden looked in dreams.
The pale sun flickers through the twitching trees
and the wind fills the lawn with rustling leaves.
In the shed daddy sharpens up his secateur blades
and the wind picks up and the sunlight fades.

The Bushes Scream While My Daddy Prunes

A ‘phone call after lunch brings the cement and sand
as he watches from the house the disappearing land.
At four he takes a walk on the concrete raft,
but daddy’s sunk without a trace, he’s never coming back.

The Bushes Scream While My Daddy Prunes

Written by R. R. Dallaway