A Variegated Polar Bear

A further series of random musings.

Another Overpriced Abstraction
Three for the price of one.

Marx told me to do it,
Yeah, Marx told me to do it:
Carve a workers' paradise from the bones of bureaucrats,
Sculpt statues on every factory floor,
Scrawl platitudes across the mouths of the bourgeoisie,
And torch the bank, the mansion and the stock exchange.
Torch the bank, the mansion and the stock exchange.

Saatchi told me to do it,
Yeah, Saatchi told me to do it:
Build a bed and sleep in it,
Buy a book and spit on it,
Slice a calf and worship it,
And torch the portfolio, the museum and the gallery.
Torch the portfolio, the museum and the gallery.

God told me to do it,
Yeah, God told me to do it:
Fling whitewash on a bloodstained shawl,
Synthesise the concrete from the speculative,
Tattoo oracles on the skin of courtesans,
And torch the mosque, the chapel and the synagogue.
Torch the mosque, the chapel and the synagogue.
Torch the mosque, the chapel and the synagogue:
When God tells you to do it.

You're My Father and I Won't Renege It
For Kenneth.

You are my father and I don't deny it,
You are my father and I won't decry it,
You are my father and I don't denounce it,
You are my father and I won't renounce it.
In sickness as in health,
In poetry as in wealth:
You were my father, for better or worse,
For good or bad, for happy or sad,
In covert prose and overt verse.
You were my Father and now you're dead,
You're still my father in my head

Hark! The Chicken King Lives!
Almost a sonnet.

The Chicken King lives by the sea
In a castle made of sand.
The Chicken King has daughters three
For whom their father seeks the hand
Of a cockerel with a sense of fun,
A cockerel who will get things done,
And a cockerel who will never run
When wind and hail and lashing rain
And high tides threaten his domain.
For the Chicken King he is no fool,
And he has learned the golden rule:
That when your Kingdom's in the shit
Get your son-in-law to deal with it.

Russell J Turner - April 2010