A taste of Holland

The funny thing about the Dutch
Is just how often and how much
They all indulge in bread and cheese
And knock it back with polished ease

Edam, Gouda, you will know
But many more will be on show
Hard or soft, and white or blue
For breakfast, lunch and supper, too

The rich and poor, the proud and humble
Share one thought when tummies grumble
Out come parers, plates and knives
To serve the staple of their lives

The word for cheese in Dutch is ‘kaas’
Which starts with K and sounds like ‘farce’
You’ll hear it several times a day
When food and drink are on their way

At mealtimes they will raid the fridge
And conjure up a fresh sandwich
Some might make a double-decker
All will say their choice is ‘lekker’

This little word means ‘nice’ or ‘yum’
That something pleases mouth and tum
And soon after the bread is buttered
You can be sure it will be uttered

You’d be excused for thinking that
The average Hollander is fat
In fact, if anything, they’re thin
And this is why: now listen in

There’s nothing more the people like
Than travelling by pedal bike
Whatever dairy goods they eat
They burn them off out in the street

And one more thing, that isn’t all
The Dutch are so extremely tall
Although they have a modest girth
They’re still the giants of the Earth

Their homeland is a special place
A small flat world, a monster race
Where living can be quite a squeeze
And all the mountains made of cheese

The loneliest man in the world

Imagine, if you would, a man
We’ll call him something, let’s say Stan
He’s just your average sort of bloke
Likes a beer, doesn’t smoke

He watches football live on Sky
Is fond of steak and kidney pie
He’s takes the train to work each day
The job's quite good, but not the pay

He voted once for Tony Blair
Back when he still had all his hair
The man in whom Stan had such hopes
Now finds himself against the ropes

The steps that took us into war
He’s finally accounting for
Stan watches on the TV news
And weighs up the reporters’ views

This chap was once so keen to please
But now, to Stan, seems ill at ease
His face is taut, his lips are tight
He’s girded, ready for a fight

He starts off tense, his speech is slow
But soon the magic starts to flow
He’s warming up now to the task
Anticipates what next they’ll ask

His arms wave freely through the air
The man of old is now out there
The rhetoric is strong but measured
Skills his party once so treasured

The public sits behind his back
Inquisitors in front attack
The questions fly; he ducks and weaves
Somebody shouts abuse, and leaves

He’s making quite a firm defence
He knows, to some, he’ll cause offence
Repentant, no; defiant, yes
He’d do the same, despite the mess

It’s, in the end, a judgement call
He’s standing by it, standing tall
If there was just one crumb of doubt
It’s not something he’ll talk about

While people look for who’s to blame
Perhaps it was done in Stan’s name
And men like him who didn’t go
On protest marches shouting ‘no’

Who didn’t write to their MPs
Or pray to God on bended knees
Who might feel duped but understand
That someone has to take a stand

It must be lonely at the top
The place where all the bucks must stop
And leadership, as Stan reflects
Is what the average bod expects

Stan thinks of all the men that now
Will bear their consciences, and how
They’ll gladly talk, once things turned bad
Of all the doubts they really had

How they were really drawn along
Cajoled and pressured, into wrong
Their consciences are still quite clean
They were just cogs in Blair’s machine

So how much does Stan really care?
Blair’s now a multimillionaire
Still, rather him than me, thinks Stan
Who wants to be that lonely man?

In the attic

A drum, a whistle, an old tin hat

A box of medals for your chest, like that

A cap, a bottle, a bayonet

I'm the officer - and don't forget!

A belt, a buckle, a silver key

An old-fashioned monocle to help you see

A gun, a bullet: hands on your head

You're my prisoner - and now you're dead!

So long Mr Snowman

The snowman's staring in again
He's smiling through the window pane
He seems to say, it's cold outside
But that he's something to confide

I wait until it's after tea
And find out what he wants of me
By then the stars are shining bright
And snowman glistens in the light

He says, it's good to be your friend
But soon this chilly spell will end
So with the turning of the moon
Beware that I'll be going soon

Although it's true I'll have to dash
It might not happen in a flash
One long and lazy Saturday
I'll probably just fade away
And when I do, please don't be sad
Just think of all the fun we had

Rumours of snow

Ten pints of milk, please, and five brown loaves
Free-range eggs - two dozen of those
This shop today just seems so manic
I wonder what is all the panic?!