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Badger Poetry

Alan Zimbabwe
John Dillinger
Others
Clarence Peabody
Summer Fauve
Nick Green

Dear Liam, Dear Noel,
Here I am still on the dole,
Packing T-shirts , without end...
Eight hundred today of yours, My friend...
We who wait here, in the wings,
Are philosophical about these things.
Every star that upwards flies
Newton knows falls from the skies,
Left bad taste and nothing more...
That's the deal with that Old Whore...

Oh don't think I don't know her voice,
I've walked the tight rope of that choice,
The Devil and the deep blue sea,
At night I hear her calling me, saying...
"Easy money! Easy life!
Here's the contract, here's the knife...
Sign here, and you know the score."
Same old deal with that Old Whore.

I meet her at the crossroads, and I look her in the eye,
She says "I'll do all the thinking, all you have to do is lie..."
There's Banshee's in the background, and a siren in the air,
And I know I'll be a traitor, but I don't know if I care,
Where did I come into this, did it all start yesterday?
She says I start on Monday, and the cheque is on it's way...
But something in her cackling, reminds me what I was before...
I recognise all I despise in that Old Whore...
 
Cos She'll use you, she'll seduce you,
She'll sell you, swing you high.
She'll squeeze you, and tease you,
And laugh when you cry,
She'll build you up to knock you down,
You'll leave by the same door,
The same one that you first came in,
But bled by that Old Whore.

Now no-one walks onto a stage without a head to fill the room,
And no-one here will save the kids with one short, sharp, snappy tune,
And I guess I love the toilet gigs, and the audiences of ten...
And I've thanked the dog after the gig, and I hope I will again...
But Tomorrow I pack T-shirts, eight hundred fucking more,
I still resist, I will not kiss that Old Whore.