The day will come when research clinics,
cosmetic shops, laboratories,
sewers and landfill sites will open
and give up those whom no one sees.
They’ll rise and march against the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!

A host of billions, all the children
who never saw the light of day
will be emerging from the refuse
around the world, come out to play
and wreak their vengeance on the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!

Armed with the instruments that killed them,
all those unwanted will condemn
their foe and do unto their mothers
what once their mothers did to them,
an army dreaded by the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!

We're sorry we've been too busy working,
inventing, designing, producing, promoting,
selling or repairing dish washers, washing machines,
tumble and hair dryers, microwaves and disposable nappies
in order to assuage your terrible lot,

We're sorry we've been too busy creating
the fashions that find your approval,
the kissproof lipstick and the tearproof mascara,
the one-night dye and the reddest nail polish,

We're sorry we've been too busy with our careers,
trying to catch up with your material needs,
bullying each other on the way to the top
in professions that we detest and despise
but that we perform until our dying year,

We're sorry we've been too busy writing,
staging and broadcasting the soaps you like
to keep you entertained from dawn till sunset,

We're sorry we've been too busy mowing the lawn,
digging the weeds and fixing the car,
mending the pipes and laying the carpet,
painting the walls and carrying home your shopping,

We're sorry we've been too busy killing and dying
in the wars of the nations, attempting to secure
and to enhance the lifestyle you're used to,

We're sorry we've been too busy making the money you spend
to take part in your struggle against male domination.

With his trusting flock in the morning
the good shepherd sets out to seek
a green pasture on which they'll be grazing,
and he'll let them drink from the creek.

And he tells them a bedtime story
when at night they are going to sleep
of the paradise that awaits them,
and he then bids good night to his sheep.

And he sees them again at Easter
when the village meets under the trees
and prepares them upon a table
in the sight of their enemies.

The disciples met in Joseph’s
house who had the table laid
to commemorate the selfless
sacrifice their Saviour made.

Mary stormed into the meeting
and dispersed her brethren’s gloom:
‘He has risen! He has risen!
There’s no body in the tomb!’

‘That’s great news’, said Joseph, smiling.
‘Sure, the Lord is homeward bound’,
and he sliced the meat for supper,
and he passed the chalice round.

Everyone was in good spirits,
until John looked at his fork
as he chewed and asked politely:
‘Surely you’re not serving pork?’

Simon Peter took the chalice,
drank and smashed it with a thud,
turned around and barked at Joseph:
‘That’s not wine, Joe! This is blood!’

‘Do you not remember, brethren,
what our Saviour said before?
Eat my flesh and drink my blood, and
you shall live for evermore!

‘He has given us his dogma,
we’re supposed to live by it!
Hold on, I’ll just put another
juicy femur on the spit...’

They say their God came down to Earth,
became a man and gave them
eternal life the day he died
upon the cross to save them.
How do you think they treat the man
who died for them and one day
will bring them to his paradise?
They eat him on a Sunday.

He taught his humble fellowmen
the easy-to-infer fact
that not a person in this world
except himself is perfect.
They are forgiven once a week
and sin again on Monday;
as for the man who saved their souls,
they eat him on a Sunday.

Their ancestors were primitive,
and human sacrifices
were fried or barbecued and served
with native herbs and spices.
But then came Christ, and now they are
more civilised – their fun day
is when, unseasoned and uncooked,
they eat him on a Sunday.

Knights in white satin,
always shunning the day,
letters they've written
come down to a K.

They love the darkness,
wear the blood drop and cross
dress to kill ruthlessly,
and they'll show you who's boss.

And they love it,
yes they love it,
oh how they love it!

Like evil fairies
they emerge from the woods,
grown-ups that dress up
in white robes and white hoods.

Sometimes I wonder
what these terrible knights
wear underneath it -
is it stockings or tights?

And they love it,
yes they love it,
oh how they love it!

'I want it, and I want it now!',
the delegates heard their leader rant.
'To heat our factories and homes,
I want my nuclear power plant!'

But her advisors tried to point
out, as they had so often tried
before, that due to risks and costs
the plant could not be justified.

'I do not want us to depend
on filthy Arabs, and much less
on those unruly miners who
left our economy in a mess!

'If global cooling brings that new
Ice Age of which the world now speaks,
our country shan't be held to ransom
by union bosses and by sheiks.'

'The climate change reversed, my Lady -
over the past two years the Earth
got slightly warmer, and that trend
seems to remain, for all it's worth.'

'Then that must be the CO2
that we emit - it should be banned!'
The scientists laughed out: 'Just like
that raindrop that sank Doggerland.'

'If we could prove that it is so',
the Prime Minister kept her calm,
'then all our problems could be solved
by raising the global warming alarm.

'There'd be new products and new jobs
reducing levels, we could tax
all CO2 emitting fuels,
and we'd get Greenpeace off our backs.

'There's an entire industry
to be developed while we shan't
forget the science to support it,
and I could get my nuclear plant!'

The day that he was captured, Che Guevara
was tied up in a mud school to confess;
the prisoner requested a short meeting
with the school mistress, Julia Cortez.

'You have this dump, and they have their Mercedes -
if they spent less, you'd have a little more.
Those guys can do without their status symbols,
and that's exactly what we're fighting for!'

When Che was killed, before they dumped his body,
a CIA man took his watch, aware
that one day this would be a priced possession:
though Che is gone, his Rolex is still there.

They eat all things they can get hold of
and know no manners and no shame,
they urinate at every corner
they pass to stake their petty claim.

By making noise to wake a graveyard,
the poor neglected creatures try
to gain attention by annoying
the neighbours and the passers-by.

They jump around like they’ve been bitten
by flees or demons, though they may
prove that they’re clever by retrieving
the things that others throw away.

They stick their nose in all excreta
that others dropped in any place,
then they’re returning to their owner,
sit up and lick their hand and face.

Each one of them has done and tasted
the sickest, vilest thing there is:
as God has made man in his image,
man has created dog in his.

Anyone who hates dogs can't be all bad.
- W.C. Fields

'Twas the most pleasant of all noons
within the perfect dream. That day
the birds were heard, the footpaths clean,
and all the playgrounds safe for play.

We celebrated in the streets,
embraced and sang for all it's worth,
and everyone rejoiced: 'The dogs,
the dogs have vanished from this Earth!'

The barking ceased - in peaceful parks
again we heard the joyful birds,
and those who walk no longer walked
a slalom round the smelly turds.

The air was light and Life was good.
The children ventured out and then
reclaimed their playgrounds, knowing they
would never be attacked again.

Nobody knew, of all the vets
and experts who were unprepared,
how all this planet's dogs had died
within one night, and no one cared.

But I examined several dogs
to have this miracle unfurled
and bring the recipe along
for testing in the real world.

Yet I woke up before I solved
the canicide's sweet mystery,
because my neighbour's mutt had barked
me back into reality.

In Joseph's small carpentry shop on Rogue Alley
his son dropped his hammer and opened his gob:
'I've had it to here! I'll be leaving this valley
today, and I'll look for a different job!'

'And what will you do?', asked his father with patience
and picked up the cross that his son angrily
had thrown to the floor. 'You've no qualifications -
there is a great future in carpentry!

'We do not take orders, we are our own bosses,
and yesterday morning our workload increased:
another large order for two hundred crosses
came in from the Romans; they must plan a feast!'

'I hate making incense cases from briar
and crosses from dogwood and tables from pine:
I want to go out and become a messiah
and fix this bad world and become the Divine!

'Do not try to stop me, I'll leave on the double!',
but Joseph stayed calm and said 'Listen to me!
Messiahs are homeless and always in trouble,
and people despise them for what they can see.

'Messiahs do not get their salaries weekly,
not many disciples will follow their call;
I know you will fail, and I know you will meekly
return to your cross, son, in no time at all!'

I came not to send peace, but the sword.
Matthew 10:34

‘Twas the nightmare of Christmas, when all through the West
the bonfires were lit for the feast, and the best
of the harvest and cattle that plentiful year
had produced were brought forth, since a new one was near.
But their sun god had died, and the nights became long,
and he had to be wakened by fire and by song,
so he’d generate day light and warmth for each field
which it needed another harvest to yield.
And after the people had eaten their share,
they prayed to the sun god to make him aware,
and worshippers danced to the song of their priest
when Christians with torches approached from the East.
They beheaded the dancers and slaughtered the chiefs:
‘We must put an end to your pagan beliefs,
barbarian customs and godless ways!’
With this they mowed through the crowd to praise
the Lord who had brought them eternal life
by massacring children, husband and wife.
And they heard them exclaim as they killed with delight:
‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!’

The few who survived became Christians by force;
their descendants now follow tradition, of course,
and celebrate Christmas for all it is worth
when Jesus was born to bring peace to this Earth.

The timbal kept on beating
and stirred the strident brass,
the angels dropped like windfall
when Father Death said Mass.

The clerestory enabled
no ray of light to pass
the dingy little windows
when Father Death said Mass.

He roared we all were evil
and doomed to live in Hell
for being disobedient,
selfish and vain as well.

God is our Lord, he ranted,
His order will prevail:
He made us in His image
and hates to see us fail!

Outside the sun was shining,
and on the rampant grass
the daffodils were blooming
while Father Death said Mass.

'Mum, I can't sleep tonight because I fear
the old invisible man who's in my room
and watches everything I do, who'll hear
all things I whisper and who'll spell my doom,
who will come out to get me before long,
and who will burn me if I'm doing something wrong.'

'Oh darling, there's no need to be afraid
of God! I'm certain that he loves you still;
he'll only punish those who disobeyed,
but he'll reward all those who do his will.
You'll be in Paradise with him one day
if you do everything your priests and parents say.'

Clara dressed up, excited
about her newest date –
what kind of doctor was he,
and would he show up late?

The restaurant was crowded,
but soon the waiter led
them to their place. A woman
came up to him and said:

‘Thanks, doctor, for your kindness.
Now I’m in shape, and on
Sunday I will be running
the charity marathon!’

‘Who was that?’, Clara asked him
after she went away.
‘That lady is a patient,
I trashed her child today.’

When all one believes in seems lost, and one sees
not a ray of hope for great plans Fortune shuns,
Fate sometimes provides opportunities,
but these must be noticed and grasped at once.

Fort Pitt lay besieged by thousands of proud
Lenape reclaiming their land and their skies,
while inside the walls of it small pox broke out,
and soldiers and citizens died just like flies.

‘A pox on those Indians’, barked Major Trent
as the corpses lay piled in the hospital’s court,
‘for keeping us trapped’, when the message was sent
that two Indian chiefs had arrived at the fort.

‘Six nations are gathered and keen to attack,
but they all have agreed when we asked to delay
hostilities, giving you time to pack
and leave the fort and the country today.’

‘I’m grateful for your concern’, Trent replied,
‘but we’ve all that we need in the fort, and apart
from that, three armies will fight at our side,
so go and tell them that they can start.’

But since they meant well, wrote the misanthrope
in his journal, and out of respect (God forbid)
we gave them two hospital blankets. I hope
it will have the desired effect.

                             - It did.

Being a lighthouse keeper
is all one needs to be:
to live in peace and quiet
while keeping an eye on the sea,

To watch the changing colours
of the ocean and the sky,
the indecisive tide as
the world of blue rolls by,

To sit there in the evenings,
having a pipe, a drink,
and to decide at leisure
who’ll live and who will sink.

A virus may sit on a blood cell.
It may be aware of its identity;
it may be able to spread to the neighbouring cells;
it may be conscious of the damage it is doing,
and even conscious of the fact it’s doing it
to a much larger living organism;
but never, never will it be able to picture
this organism and the suffering it causes it.

Now man may sit on a planet...

The eagle killed a pigeon
and picked it to the bone,
and as they were still callow,
the nestlings hadn't flown;
so after he had dinner
he killed the squabs as well,
then grabbed them with his talons
and rose above the dell.

But when he reached his eyrie,
a horrid sight was shown:
someone had killed the eaglets
and picked them to the bone!
'Who did that?', he was fuming;
the magpie slyly said:
'I think I saw the sparrow
pass by as if he fled.'

The raging eagle summoned
the birds both great and small
and told them: 'What has happened
is a disgrace to all
who want to live in freedom;
therefore we must declare
war on the vicious sparrow
and all his mates out there!'

The others cheered the eagle
and honed their claws and beaks,
and you could see the falcons
patrolling mountain peaks,
the keen woodpecker drumming
to raise the battle heat
and nightingales amarching
to the rhythm of the beat.

The songs ceased in the forest,
drums beat for years on end,
and from each twig and offshoot
there hung a feathered friend,
the heavens were deserted,
the meadows stained with gore,
the roofs turned into mass graves
when the birdies went to war!

The dove opposed conscription
with the two-letter word:
he'd never raise his pecker
against a fellowbird.
He called for peace and prudence;
before he could draw breath,
the eagle had passed sentence,
and he was put to death.

Who had a score to settle
declared his enemy
an ally of the sparrow
and joined the killing spree;
the spoonbill had no weapon
to call his own and was
the first one done away with
under the crowd's applause.

The songs ceased in the forest,
drums beat for years on end,
and from each twig and offshoot
there hung a feathered friend,
the heavens were deserted,
the meadows stained with gore,
the roofs turned into mass graves
when the birdies went to war!

The sparrows were too scared of
the mighty birds of prey,
and so they'd kill their offspring
and smash the eggs they'd lay,
the magpies cruelly listened
to their victims' final cheep,
and chicks in arms dismembered
their playmates in their sleep.

The starling stabbed the blackbird,
the heron drove his bill
right through the noisy ducklings
when on a distant hill
the sparrows' nests were spotted
as the sun rose in the east,
and only minutes later
the vultures had a feast.

The songs ceased in the forest,
drums beat for years on end,
and from each twig and offshoot
there hung a feathered friend,
the heavens were deserted,
the meadows stained with gore,
the roofs turned into mass graves
when the birdies went to war!

When the last sparrow perished,
the few survivors hailed
their leader who concluded
that justice had prevailed.
'We finished off the sparrow,',
he said; 'God heard our pleas,
and every bird is safe now
from his atrocities.

'And yet we must continue
our struggle and our strife,
for still the other finches
try to control our life
and take away our freedom;
we'll make them understand
that we will not surrender
but fight until the end!'

The songs ceased in the forest,
drums beat for years on end,
and from each twig and offshoot
there hung a feathered friend,
the heavens were deserted,
the meadows stained with gore,
the roofs turned into mass graves
when the birdies went to war!

If I would be the President
of the United States,
to Mars my army I would send
beyond the pearly gates.

They would defend our freedom there
against the Little Green;
they'd slay and kill them everywhere,
because they’re small and mean.

And if they bothered the UN,
our veto soon would stand -
nothing could stop our brave young men
from fighting for their land!

And if they should approach the press,
they'd also have to fail:
I'd shut their stations, cause distress
and put them all in jail.

And if they ventured to strike back,
our allies we would call,
and mightily we would attack
till nothing's left at all.

Our boys would fight on distant stars
and therefore leave their hearth;
disaster then would reign on Mars,
and peace would be on Earth.

On the sunset of Civilisation
they were watching the fall of the dome
where they prayed to the god of their nation
on the morning when Terror came home.

Once the uniforms killed one another
with a gun or a sword or a knife:
the Americans chose not to bother
and bomb cities, erasing all life.

Those who call for revenge slaughter millions
while they censor those telling the truth,
test new weapons on blameless civilians
and loot drugs to get rid of their youth.

Those who love to destroy any culture
they do not understand choose their prey,
pick the meat from the dead like a vulture
and enforce the American way.

Any race that won't follow their orders
is subjected to genocide,
and the tyrants securing the borders
of their colonies don't have to hide.

Now the victims of horror and slaying
serve as bait in the massacadrome,
and the innocent crowd will be paying
for the morning when Terror came home.

Boom, boom! The Bushmen beat their drums
and rattle every skull and bone
they made in former feuds: here comes
the tribe that won't be overthrown!

'Somebody has attacked and killed
our people in a savage way:
the vow of vengeance be fulfilled,
somebody soon will have to pay!'

Firm justice would their chief prescribe,
and if they can't get hold of him,
the Bushmen shall erase his tribe
and tear his neighbours limb from limb!

Boom, boom! The Bushmen throw their bombs
on children, men and women; furled
in sycophancy, their pogroms
are being hailed by the Civilized World!

Best recited to the monotonous beat of a single tom-tom, in a low and threatening voice: slow at the beginning, getting faster towards the end of each stanza. The last line, as it speeds up, to be read with ironic enthusiasm.

In this planet’s control centre flourish
those who’ll usher us into a dreary
and dark future, and keenly they nourish
the bald eagle who rules his White Eyrie.

But this bird is a bloodthirsty vampire,
and Humanity’s mightiest scorner
now ensures the American empire
soon will cover the world’s furthest corner.

And whenever his foes are defeated
it’s surprising how promptly he’ll stumble
across used-to-be friends he has cheated -
else his wealthiest industry’d crumble!

So he’d tell an old satrap: ‘You’re rising
up against me while try’ng to distract me,
and there’s no need of proof ere chastising
any nation that may have attacked me!’

With that blank-but-determined expression
home on Anglo-American faces
he gives order to start the aggression -
he stays home, but his army goes places!

He proclaims that each war as it happens
is inclined to be Liberty’s sprinter,
making sure the producers of weapons
in his country get safe through the winter.

A one, a two - a marching tune
to keep your mind beneath your feet,
to keep your loyalty immune
and stamp your orders in the street.

A one, a two - turn left, turn right
as we command you; think not, go!
The enemies you have to fight
are evil cos we tell you so.

A one, a two - salute before
superiors“ (Superior? Ha!
Could anything on earth be more
ridiculous than soldiers are?)

Thy flesh was white and so is mine,
as white as that of stainless sheep,
and still my wound is just as deep -
what better is thy flesh than mine?

Thy blood was red and so is mine,
as red as some sweet summer's rose,
and yet the wound still grows and grows -
what better is thy blood than mine?

Our lives are spotless and divine:
we never fell from our belief,
it may have caused us joy or grief -
thou hadst thy values, I have mine.

For love of man thou once didst die,
and diest again for all the shame
wherever people call thy name
and make thy hymn a lullaby.

I live - alive I'll always be:
I won't be crucified with jeers
nor hurt with jaded soldiers' spears;
take up thy cross and follow me!

My father has a rowing boat,
hey-ho, hey-ho, hey-ho,
and when I row his rowing boat,
it goes extremely slow.

My father has a jar of wine,
hey-ho, hey-ho, hey-ho,
and when I pour his sparkling wine,
my sense of style I show.

My father has a mistress fair,
hey-ho, hey-ho, hey-ho,
and when I meet his mistress fair,
he thinks to school I go.

It was the birthday of my girl:
I got an earring with a pearl,
and after work I planned to ride
a hundred miles to see my bride,
but then I heard the foreman say:
'I'm sorry you'll work late today’.

It was God's day off! It was God's day off!

I did the duties I dislike,
and after work I took my bike.
I had to speed, whate'er the cost,
the Gards have raced me but they lost;
another twenty miles to town,
and in a bend my bike broke down.

It was God's day off! It was God's day off!

I spotted, coming to my feet,
another bike beside the street,
the keys still in it - I jumped on,
and in a second I was gone.
I hardly could believe my luck,
but suddenly I saw the truck.

It was God's day off! It was God's day off!