OH, FOR THE DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES

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OH, FOR THE DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES

Falling in love with a poet
May be the closest you will come to living forever
Be the wild card in his pack
In a world where lonely queens never say never
Go live in the desert rather than a fancy hotel
Eat with rusty cutlery, drink cider instead of Muscatel
Visit no mans land, but once only
Then come back and you will never feel lonely
Remember that underground city that once glowed
Red in the dark
Go limber up in hilly Montmartre
Then go barefoot in Gaudi Park
Dance with demons and devils on some remote island
Then go toss some cabers in the godless Scottish Highlands
All this you must do, while your poet’s mouth opens and closes
As you dance along some cobbled street singing
Oh, for the days of wine and roses.

I AM CHARLIE

France Newspaper Attack

I AM CHARLIE
I dreamt I saw Charlie last night
Alive as you and me
Charlie, I said, you’re surely dead
I never died says he
I never died says he

From Paris out to New Orleans
From Rheims to San Jose
The lousy bastards shot you dead
I never died says he
I never died says he

It takes more than guns to kill a man
Let freedom be the key
When working men stand up to them
That’s there you’ll find Charlie
I never died says he
I never died says he

(with apologies to Phil Ochs/Joe Hill)

CITY OF LIGHT

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CITY OF LIGHT
A disused rail track in south Paris;
A dark tunnel;
Crawling, wading, through water
To a dank chamber with vaulted ceilings.
This is where the cataphiles meet;
Lovers of catacombs
And all things underneath.
The walls are covered with art
Awash with glow-in-the-dark paint,
Egyptian black-and-orange devil faces,
A multi coloured parrot image.
One wall is encrusted with mirror shards
The centerpiece a glittering disco ball
The ghostly faces leering
Down the long subterranean hall
This is the City of Light
Where nobody sleeps at night
And the remains of six million Parisians,
Transferred from Paris’ overflowing cemeteries
More than one hundred years ago,
Dwell.
Now artists prowl these same catacombs
Sometimes unseen
Ghostly in their movements
The spectre of real ghosts always in their slipstream.