Vanished

Nobody was sure what became of wee Ron.
One sec he was there, and the next he was gone.

It reminded the neighbours of eight year old Claire
Who vanished one Tuesday night into thin air.

And Jimmy McLoughlin and Michelle McGrane
Who emitted a “Pop!” and were ne’er seen again.

Another dimension?
Who knows what befell
Young Jimmy and Claire and wee Ron and Michelle?
.

Racism 2108

The Jovian economy’s overheated.
It’s meltdown on a quite enormous scale.
The planet’s market forces are depleted
And thereby hangs a cautionary tale.

We need to cut back greatly on our borrowing.
We need to rein the banks in very fast.
If we don’t there will be no tomorrowing,
Our present rate of spending cannot last…

There’s been an influx from the Giant Planet,
These Jovians work hard for little pay.
Immigration? Some say we should ban it,
There’s not enough to go around today.

Why don’t they go to Venus or to Saturn?
Why are they always drawn to Mother Earth?
Each solar crisis follows this same pattern,
Regression to the planet of life’s birth.

If we allow them all in willy-nilly,
It isn’t only Earthlings who will suffer.
The present laws are spurious and silly –
It’s time our well-paid leaders made them tougher.

The liberals point out our own global crisis
When billions had to leave our choking lands
And populate those worlds where hard-packed ice is
More prevalent than warm inviting sands.

But that was way back then. The story’s altered
And economic migrants keep arriving.
It’s no surprise the Jovian dollar faltered
And left their banking system far from thriving.

Of course their culture has to be respected
Their ethics and morality are renowned,
But if our living standards are affected,
It’s time we drew the line and stood our ground.

The day the music really died

No storm clouds blotted out the sky,
No thunder crashed in doom-filled peals.
No trumpets blared the news on high,
No chariots of fire sped by
On rolling, flashing wheels.

‘Twas just a day wherein the breeze
Roved lightly over hedge and street
And rustled leaves in stately trees
In pleasant seventeen degrees
Of lazy springtime heat.

But dotted all around the world,
No-one could soothe the songsmiths’ feelings.
And imprecations long were hurled
And smoke from ashtrays gaily curled
On up to blackened ceilings.

For though they paced with frantic tread,
No songs of note could be composed.
It was as if the Muse had fled
From every earnest songsmith’s head,
Or resolutely dozed.

Whatever set of notes they strummed
Or plucked, or sang with voices fair,
Whatever mournful tune they hummed,
One by one they all succumbed
To tearing out their hair.

For every song that could be writ
Had now been writ. And though they blew
And drew their bows, and though they bit
Their bottom lips, they had to quit
Composing something new.

And after days and weeks, they cried
And flung their fiddles in the bin.
It was the day the music died
When every songsmith joined the tide
And packed the business in.

And no more music e’er was heard,
No rise and fall of pitch and tone,
And though it might seem quite absurd,
Each hitherto expressive bird
Now chirped in monotone.

And soon a dark’ning gloom descended,
Blacker still than any night.
The Music Age abruptly ended,
The grasping claws of death extended,
Blocking out the light.
.