|I lie in my amber bed
Cast adrift by you.
You the huntress, forever chasing,
Me forever failing, failing.
Madame Karnak consults her cards,
She reassuringly gives me the Death card.
Tarot is not my strong point.
She is quick to point out it only means change.
Change to what? - a hospital bedroom,
Low lit and clinically clean.
Maybe a nursing home, one of the cheaper ones,
Down by the sea, flickering lights in winter,
When the cable is gnawed by rats,
Either that or it gets a soaking.
Raining on me, I hear the pitter-patter
On the glass roof of my special place.
It is used for the elderly,
To sit and reflect on a life badly lived.
Too much used by incompetent firms,
Always wanting too much of my time.
Family on hold while the wife has a third child,
A gangling boy intent on being a Maths genius,
But really is a savant who just knows.
Tea-time, Mr Parker, says the nurse in white uniform.
Have your tea while it's still warm.
Much better for you, dinner soon - eat all your greens.
You know you like pork chops, a birdcage of vegetables,
A brandy basket at Christmas,
And all those fattening chocolates, bad for your cholesterol.
Mother's here - one hundred and two,
And vacant like an empty car lot,
She parks in a disabled spot.
Very able woman snaps her head off,
Jealous of a blue badge,
Because she has to walk another mile with shopping.
Library girls out to cause a stir,
Drinking cocktails in a glitzy bar,
Wanting more than clerical wages,
Wanting more than an impotent husband,
Who teaches thirteen year olds how to read logarithms.
Will you come to marry me, Mr Parker?
Said over a garden fence, one summer's day in '52.
Yes, I shall, I have greenfingers by the barrowload.
Plenty of manure too, ideal for your roses.
You don't say, they grow so well on clay.
I like the rose garden at Kew,
And all those trees in the Palm House,
Must go and see it with mother
On her birthday - this coming September.
Must see her off in style.
Bring the grandchildren, won't you?
They love to see their gran
Dribbling tea with a digestive.
Come inside out of the cold,
The records play continually of old times,
When Cilla was young and Cliff Richard wasn't gay.
Mustn't fuss the boy, mustn't fuss him.
He'll turn out okay in the end, mother.
Just like his father - turning in his grave he was
The other side of Todmorden.
In a semi, built after the war with central heating and fitted kitchens.
Garden suburbs, what they call them, Hitchen, Welwyn, Bedford too.
Put it on my plate, I can eat as much as you.
Sausage and mash and verbal diarrhoea,
Police will call, or maybe those from loony bin
They always want the clients, must fill the beds.
These days it's all so politically incorrect,
To be lathered up in nut house,
One foot in the grave,
Gnawing at me, gnawing at me,
Like some giant rat, I will explode,
If she doesn't love me.
Madame Karnak says, I have spoken,
Your fate is sealed.
I see the Wheel of Fortune turning, turning.
You will see Hell before the dawn.
I know the truth of her predictions.
My Wheel has turned full circle,
I am back at the beginning,
Being spoon-fed baby food for my sins.