Carol Batton - Manchester Poet
1995 pt3 | pt2 | pt1
The Stone.
There stood a stone,
A standing stone,
That stood alone,
Forlorn.
Upon the field,
To mark the spot,
The very spot
Where stood the cross,
Beside the Pope,
Who came.
And sometimes
When I see the stone,
That very stone
That stands alone,
I do recall,
He came.
I then remember,
All the things
I did that night,
'Til early light.
At dawn I saw,
The Pope pass by
That very day...
And then at Mass
I fell asleep,
And he went away.
Confirm.
It takes timeto earn the title,
"Bastard",
No one act, can quite confirm.
It's just amazing how it hurts,
To learn someone's a worm.
Senseless.
What grows in the Nile tunnel?
Not Nigella and Peony.
Bile bleeds, like oil, only.
Phoney talk, so phone me.
Puerile tea,
Strong coffee,
And cherry blossom.
Am I to be set free?
Quickly maybe.
My sanity,
My reality,
Returns,
As recent sleep leaves me.
Twice.
That's twice I've said the word 'Bizarre',
That's 'Bizarre'.
Woe.
Oh! Woe, when the blossom is shed!
Oh! G-d in this Government, let me be fed.
I can still say what has to be said.
And the fact that they bully the B.B.C.
Frightens me more than poverty.
Intro | 1992 | 1995 | August 98
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