Tis Christmas and the Flowers
are hidden beyond our ken
And months before the soft wind
comes a blowing o'er the fen
And me and the mottled mugworts
Have made it through again.
So now I'll dream of warmer days
And wear thick clothes till then.
(December 31, 1993)
Beneath the oak trees on the top of the hill
Lives a tired old farmer, his friends call him Bill
Ask if he's rich, the answer is nil.
To feed all the world is his biggest thrill
He has the knowledge, he has the skill
Just give him the chance and by golly, he will.
The steak is tough, the peas are hard.
The butter has the taste of lard.
The bitter coffee, almost steam,
Cooled by an imitation cream!
I ponder now, could it be true,
That smiles are imitation too?
The ancients thought they had it right
The race is to the swift and strong.
But what about the slow and weak,
How must they get along?
How much courage must it take
When you know the die is cast,
And no matter how you strive and strain
You're bound to be dead last.
We pride ourselves on doing our thing
Our way is always good.
But now we find we're missing things,
A lot more than we should.
But happily there is a way
That won't leave us all deprived.
Let's go down to the U.S.A.
And see what has arrived.
At night I hug my pillow
I know you've put on weight
You're no longer slim as a willow
What was it that you ate?
I won't suggest what you should do
I am a real good sport
But now there is so much of you
My arms are much too short
If you think that we might play
There is no way I see
But if you ever roll my way
It will end my misery