THE CROWS KNOW YOUR ADDRESS
I could murder a crow
I know where they go
When the sun goes down.
They cling to big trees
And snooze like dead bees
And sometimes they fly over town.

Some have MA’s and others PHD’s
Some strut like celebrities
And lecture others
Less scholarly in looks.
Some dance like dervishes
And read the most obscene books.

They never forget a face
Whether animal, or human race
And they hold grudges
With deadly intent
Upset them just slightly
And their anger they will vent.

When the crow revolution comes;
Oh yes, they will rise up:
Their cawing is talking
In crow parlance
And their hopping is really a war dance.
If you have ever fucked with a crow,
Even just once, a decade ago,
They will remember it was you
And their crow offspring too.
So farmers don’t ever shoot crows
‘Cos they all know what to do

I could murder a crow
But crows are like elephants
They never forget
Though they haven’t paid me back yet
I’ve just shot one as it goes;
If I murder another
Will that be a murder of crows?

 

see my books available @  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

 

THE CROWS KNOW YOUR ADDRESS

A POLITE ENQUIRY

A POLITE ENQUIRY
Tell me Mr White Man,
You turn blue with cold
Green with envy
Yellow with fear
Red with embarrassment
And you turn brown in the sun,
How come we call you White Man?

THE MEANING OF LIFE

 

Could somebody explain it to me, please!

THE MEANING OF LIFE

At the forefront of knowledge

Is the edge of uncertainty

Where reality is really

Only a projection of information

At the rim of the universe.

There, black holes loiter with intent.

They seek to break the sacred laws of physics

Which, as everyone knows, state

That information cannot be destroyed.

This is the point of no return.

All the information that ever existed is here

And black holes are held at bay – for now

What is inside is not inside

And what is outside is not outside.

We are merely holographic projections

Rendered flesh at this event horizon.

 

Asimov, of course, knew this

Way back when computers

Were not ten-a-penny.

He knew the truth, or guessed

That the universe is one vast computer itself

And we are merely its slavish programmers.

Though not living out purposeless existences,

As some believe,

But proving that life does have some meaning:

We are the way for the universe to know itself

HAMPSTEAD GIRLS

GRASS

GRASS

Woke up this morning

Barbered the lawn

And bathed in the scent

Of new-mown grass

 

There, said the sun

Smiling on my efforts

Isn’t that better

Than sitting on your arse.

EVOLUTION

EVOLUTION

I was weaned on country music

Rock-n-roll and poverty

Irish style.

Son, the priest said,

Put that guitar away

And get that hair cut right

And don’t play

‘I Can Get No Satisfaction’

Tonight.

 

It’s a sin to call yourselves

The Red Devils, he said,

And in his shadows

I could see mother nodding her head.

So we became The Royal Dukes,

Zig-zagging across Munster

And played ‘Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown’

Instead.

 

This will not do, he roared,

Rattling his pulpit,

The youth of my parish,

Harbingers of the Devil’s music,

What is wrong with Frank Ifield?

Dead music, Father, I told him

And offered to debate it

But he wouldn’t listen.

So I emigrated.

THE ANIMALS.

BOOK-ENDS

BOOK-ENDS

Ending up is what we all do.

Burnt-out cases, like our man in Havana.

How green was my valley, you may well ask.

Up the singing mountain, where eagles dare…

And the postman always rings twice.

There is no catcher in the rye,

But be careful

Not to kill a mockingbird.

MY NEW BOOK TITLES

HERE ARE LINKS TO SOME OF MY LATEST BOOKS

https://www.createspace.com/4569364

https://www.createspace.com/4645297

https://www.createspace.com/4595319

https://www.createspace.com/4651292

 

NONE SO BLIND…

NONE SO BLIND…

 When that sacred gin mill closes

And the dry-eyed need reviving,

You, Tiresias, shall laugh heartily

At us all

 

Wide-eyed we went, and you Tiresias,

Darkened by that terrible beauty,

Still saw our fall

From my new collection ’67’  @ http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

 

 

WHERE HAS ALL THE SODA BREAD GONE?

             

    

I have always loved soda bread, now I cannot find a single loaf in Hastings. I have tried at least half a dozen bakeries as well as several supermarkets, only to be told they no longer sell it. If indeed they ever did!

I HAVE DECIDED TO BAKE MY OWN AS A RESULT!

Recipe

  • 250g plain white flour
  • 250g plain wholemeal flour
  • 100g porridge oats
  • 1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
  • 1 tsp salt
  • 25g butter, cut in pieces
  • 500ml buttermilk

     method

  1. Preheat the oven to 200C/gas 6/fan 180C and dust a baking sheet with flour. Mix the dry ingredients in a large bowl, then rub in the butter. Pour in the buttermilk and mix it in quickly with a table knife, then bring the dough together very lightly with your fingertips (handle it very, very gently). Now shape it into a flat, round loaf measuring 20cm/8in in diameter.
  2. Put the loaf on the baking sheet and score a deep cross in the top. (Traditionally, this lets the fairies out, but it also helps the bread to cook through.) Bake for 30-35 minutes until the bottom of the loaf sounds hollow when tapped. If it isn’t ready after this time, turn it upside down on the baking sheet and bake for a few minutes more.
  3. Transfer to a wire rack, cover with a clean tea towel (this keeps the crust nice and soft) and leave to cool. To serve, break into quarters, then break or cut each quarter in half to make 8 wedges or slices – or simply slice across. Eat very fresh.

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