Anthony Cooney Visit @TnGTheBand on twitter.

A single bed and two racing hearts.

Now double beds, each with a single pulse.

Unapologetic farts.

What’s become of the both of us.

Creaking greeting metal springs.

Now King sized memory, mattress divan.

A silent night times guarantee

We both just rolled up in a van.

A five pound special on Harry Kane.

A yellow card and a goal.

Throw in a last minute sickie.

Say….. you fell down a hole.

Turn St George tea towels in flags.

Hang out your white bedsheets.

Stock the fridge with lager.

Fill the cupboards with crisps and sweets.

Wave your St George tea towels .

Hang out a white bed sheet.

For we are England United.

One love in thought and deed.

Black leather chairs from living rooms.

Float like Hippo’s on the water.

A young boy cycles, partially submerged.

His face hidden in a black balaclava.

All public transport has been cancelled.

Only ducks, dinghies and canoes,

Seagulls, dustbins and plastic bottles.

Make the journey through.

An old man sits upon the roof.

His dog and wife 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 bedroom windows.

The river rises, reluctantly.

The only thing missing are Flamingos.

A helicopter hops and hovers.

The waters stir and bubble.

A TV reporter ask the obvious.

Traffic lights flash, oblivious to the trouble.

Yet another “once in a lifetime event”.

Has happened once again.

The lady from the River Agency.

Blames global warming and the rain.

A thousand tears don’t help the cause.

Homes are filled with stinking mud.

Where are the walls of steel and brick?

To protect us from the floods.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bigger the bag. The more the hurry.

The more the weight. The more the worry.

The bigger the bag. Dragged up the road.

The more the weight. The more the load.

Leaving home to another place.

Running out to somewhere safe.

Bombs and bullets. Rats on the loose.

Damp and debt and physical abuse.

Give me.

Handbags and clicking heels.

Taxi rides and evening meals.

Silky gloves and a stylish Mac

The only weight upon my back.

Give me.

Polished nails with shiny glitter.

Personal trainers to make me fitter.

Ankle socks and high heeled shoes.

Happy days not winter blues.

Kingston kats were never cool.

Chewing gum and playing pool.

Leather jackets and denims jeans.

Cigarettes and ironed seams.

Elvis hairs and council homes.

Hepcat jives and flick knife combs.

Leather boots, Jimmy Dean Disciples.

We don’t have any motorcycles.

Mess with our hearts but don’t be cruel.

Kingston Kats were never kool.

Old teenage icons.

So many lines around your eyes.

Sucking cigarettes to stay skinny.

Singing songs which sound like lies.

Disappearing memories.

We will all survive.

Fingers point back at the chorus.

You wave and say goodbye.

Rolling in on the daily tides.

Lying poisoned on our shores.

No hooks or pots required.

Fill the buckets full of claws.

Blow the industry into history.

Watch the dust settle on the bank.

Pollute the river with Pyridine.

Stirring up this effluent tank.

Keep the dredgers moving.

Feed the hungry backers.

Not with local “Le Fruits de Mer”.

But the bitter taste of Jacobs Crackers.

Rubber lipped, double chinned, Pot bellied Hooray.

London late Monday, still drunk on Tuesday.

Sober on Wednesday for whoever’s PMQ’s.

Then it’s “your round at the bar”, for 12.32.

Discuss your above inflation, meagre pay rise.

With your, halitosis affected, home county bar flies.

Never on a Friday, that’s for new meat and fools.

Pleasured by the whip, he follows the rules.

Don’t put on your well healed sneakers.

If you’re going out tonight.

Don’t put on your well healed sneakers.

Unworn and oh so white.

Post a selfie in your jeans.

Alexander McQueens.

Don’t put on your well healed sneakers.

Coz i’m going out tonight.

Don’t put on those well healed sneakers

A game of fashion or a fight.

We got the same size feet.

Walking to a different beat.

Don’t put on your well healed sneakers.

Walk home barefoot tonight.

Don’t put on your well healed sneakers.

Walking home on tiptoes tonight.

I’m floating on stolen air.

Cost me nothing for this pair.

Ten yards from the church.

What a waste of a hearse.

One last taxi ride

For someone who had died.

A cold empty church.

First visited at birth.

Echoes a lost song.

From people all long gone.

Come back to my house

For ham and Famous Grouse.

A toast from the priest.

He would have been so pleased.

The Pub and the Church.

The result of any search.

But here in this house.

He loved me the Boro and Famous Grouse.