Anthony Cooney Visit @TnGTheBand on twitter.

Her scent and fashion

Like a humming bird crashing

Into Day Lilies.

Lying supine in front of its maker.

The last sausage roll at Greggs the baker.

This solitary roll on the tray cooling.

Flaky and tasty and very alluring .

A voice from behind shouts “one sausage roll”

I said “I was here first, get back in your hole“

Get back in your hole, get back in line.

Eyes of the roll, this roll is mine.

All of a sudden.

The queue I was stood in.

All stopped pushing.

All stopped pulling.

All started Looking.

As the last Yorkshire pudding.

So proud and alluring.

From fan assisted cooking.

Was placed onto somebody’s plate.

An earlier booking.

I watched him get stuck in.

Gravy all over his face.

You brought out the photographs

We both put on our glasses

All those years on the table

Times change as time passes.

There’s always another cup of tea.

A crossword and the garden.

A tale about the man next door.

Every other word is pardon.

Closer now than we’ve ever been.

Cant remember why we weren’t

I link your arms as we walk down the street

Left and right, first lesson learnt.

You speak your mind a little louder.

Than you did before.

Say what you want, say it anyway

I’ll say “what did you say that for?”

The TV’s louder than a bomb

The the kettles always on

The cakes are the best in town

You’re my little mum.

Nuts and seeds are back in fashion.

Raymond Blanc said so with such passion.

I went to the shops and bought myself a ration.

As yet i’ve had no anaphylactic reaction.

Ode to the Haggis.

In bonnie Scotland, between the Bens and Glens.

Lie small towns, mostly cladded and wooden.

Where every night, men return with great haste.

To jab and stab, at their pale ghastly pudding.

In gangs and clans, they gather once a year.

To talk of Bannockburn and Culloden

They will raise a toast, to Robert Burns.

And that wee pallid ponging pudding.

The Whiskey will flow. Long into the night.

Sometimes things turn carnaptious and nasty.

But when the clocks strike twelve. They will all raise a glass.

To that inedible, timorous pasty.

What were once the best seats in the house.

Float like Hippos in the water.

A young girl cycles, partially submerged.

On a bike her mam had bought her.

All public transport has been stopped.

Only swans ducks dinghy’s and canoes.

Seagulls dustbins and trampolines.

Manage to make their own way through.

Yet another once in a lifetime event.

Has happened once again.

The lady from the Rivers Agency

Blames global warming and the rain!

An old man sits upon the roof.

His wife and dog sit in a boat.

Hi-Vis jackets chaotically organise.

Trying to keep them all afloat.

Up the high street they set sail.

Friends wave from their bedroom window.

The river rises reluctantly.

Past the paper shop and the bingo.

A helicopter hops and hovers

The waters stir and bubble.

A reporter asks the obvious

Traffic lights don’t seem too troubled.

A thousand tears don’t help the cause.

Their homes are filled with stinking mud.

They asked for walls of brick and steel

All they got was wet driftwood.

Sixteen years old, I’m down the mine.
Five years later, I join a dole line.
Assessed and retrained, my spirits were high.
I lasted five years at the old ICI.

Signing on to a government deal.
Blood sweat and tears at The old British Steel.
Then redundancy, and a government grant.
Headed West for a spell at a nuclear plant.

The site was closed and for a four figure fee.
A survival course , an oil rig and the cold, cold North Sea. The oil price dropped, my prospects seemed slender.
So I was forced into slavery at a local call centre.

Have you ever been mis-sold PPI”?
A year later the company, had moved to Mumbai. Working as a labourer, keeping a factory clean.
But was paid off again due to Covid-19.

Now 60 years old the future is grim.
Awaiting a call to start, a new beginning.                             My souls in a hole, my heart is pure lard.
Who thought that doing nothing, would be so hard.

Blank walls and TV, cigarettes and tea
A walk for a paper, life’s lottery.
Just when I thought, all hope had gone.
Ive a twelve hour night shift at the new Amazon.

Tears may wash, away the pain.

In the heart, memories remain.

Tears will fall, but will not stain.

Such a pretty face. So turn and start again.

You’re not a rock you’re a stone.

Cold, hard faced, so leave alone.

You’re not a rock you’re a stone.

Roll away on your own.

Foundation stones, when badly laid.

Can break a home, a price is paid.

So build on rock and you will see.

A Solid bond, you can stand by me.

You’re not a rock you’re a stone.

Lay your hat in another home.

Tenderness was never shown.

You’re not a rock, you’re a stone.

I bought a carrot for a nose.

Coal for buttons and eyes.

A whisk and masher for the arms.

For ears i’ll use mince pies.

A metal saucepan for a hat.

An old scarf for a bow.

Nana’s slippers for the feet.

Now all I need is snow.