Monday 22nd June 2020


The Stuffed Tyger

Tyger, tyger burning bright
In that cabinet on the right
His eyes all dirty and his fur all drab
He’s down that passage by the spider crab
His mouth wide open makes no noise
Scares the life out the girls and boys
He’s been in that museum since I was a kid
Where out of the rain I went and hid
Many a Sunday would find me there
With the tyger the crab and the polar bear

Bish 1995



Where is that Dunkirk spirit?
Where are those beaches fought for?
Everything is closer than it was
Tunnels have been made into Europe
Dogs are crossing the channel
In roads have been worn away
By a deluge of traffic
The two car family has doubled over night
Becoming 4 x 4 x 4 too many
The working man doesn’t
The housewife isn’t
The children that were once seen and never heard
Are now heard loud and unclear and never seen
Except in a cheque book out and spoken way
Past their bedtime
The land is not green and pleasant
No bluebirds seen over those white cliffs
Dover has been closed
Ancient hearts of oak have been ripped out
Roots now bare and exposed
Britain is off the rails and its force that was once
To be reckoned with is spent
And is now a farce to be easily ridiculed
Britain shows its face as the poor man of Europe
Ripping off its hard taxed population
A population that despite all this defends its home
Defends its language
Defends its heritage that has bound it to its future
As a museum state
The past glories have come home to roost
All the benefits gained in greed
Are now embarrassments casting shadows on us all?
We have struggled to throw off this shame
And in this process bared our soul
The ordinary people are carrying crosses set in concrete
To mark their early graves
The weight of it all is too great
We cannot move forward for we have nowhere to go
We have enslaved ourselves in the guilt of our Britishness
The guilt passed down to the ordinary people
A people that carry the weight because who they think they are

Bish 2010


Play the white man

Come on play the white man
Come on play the game
In a land once fit for heroes
Nothing is quite as plain
Someone’s moved the goalposts
The white towers have gone the same
That’s just not cricket
The sandwiches are dry
Not one jack is unified
And a tear falls from Gods English eye
Come play the white man
Come on play the game
And England’s colours have faded
Washed out in all the rain
We have got to pull our socks up
Pull the wool from over our eyes
This land has changed forever
And it’s come as a huge surprise
We have fallen to the googly
We have surrendered to the Hun
Sold off our noble industries
To the land of the rising sun
We have missed the final boat my son
We have lost the fucking plot
We are locked in solitary confinement
And you don’t give a jot
Surfing on your internet
Downloading all that crap
I would make you see the mess were in
But you’re taking another nap
Were deep within the Irish stew
Battered in a French fried heap
Where counting all our wickets lost
Not knowing what to do
So run another run my son
Make it to that crease
Come on play the white man
So your great granddad can rest in peace

Bish October 2000

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