On being 50
Are we not now old men, crepuscular and cratered with the crappiness of crying and sometime happiness? Crapulous soaks in the cloaks of our chronic crapulousness stretching the credulity of our children with implausible chronicles of creative fatuousness, all the while creeping chronologically towards a crescendo of cretinism and cryogenically unavoidable doom.
Dung. Doom. Dung. Doom. Done to doom, whom Christ, the Buddha, Yaweh, Mohammed and Beelzebub cannot help now.
For we, the heretics and part time lunatics must crawl towards our crescent moon not soon but sooner than we like to think.
I cannot sustain this C and H and R alliteration ….Drink!….. C and H and ARE we not men? Have we not brain as well as testicles, as yet we enter the vestibules of senility, alive with thinly veiled hostility towards our fellow men.
Yet we are not CHavs.
Oh, this C and H and ARE we not the children of the sea who see what we want to see as our souls prepare to return our parents’ seed back to the seas of time.
Is it not time to sing of the sea a sea shanty for our fifty years of seaside and sometime seedy sides of lives now on an ebbing tide though all shall here refuse to slide like the castles made of sand back into the briny sea without a simple song to guide us on our way.
Oh I do like to be beside the seaside, OHHHHHHH! I do like to be beside the sea, OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I do like to stroll along the prom, prom, prom, (harshly like a goblin) Where the brassbands play (sarcastically) Tiddley-om-pom-pom!
(Sarcastic trumpet rendition of the above)
Oh the C and the H and the R are where you will find the H at the sea staring gloomily and happily and childishly and sneakily out to the sea beyond where the shannies shimmer and flicker amongst the rock pools on a flood tide riding their luck with the artic terns and comic turns as the worm churns and slithers riskily along the shore, snipping the waves of opprobrium and dismal deeds, the ancestral scowls of the war generation who glower enviously upon the island of our 50 years’ peace amongst the endless oceans of death, disease and destruction. I fear a D may be about to usurp our C and our H and our R and so in this R hour of our need let us sing to the sea.
Oh I do like to be beside the seaside, OHHHHHHH! I do like to be beside the sea, OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I do like to stroll along the prom, prom, prom, (harshly like an upturned strumpet) Where the brassbands play (sardonically) Tiddley-om-pom-pom!
For our peers like blennies in their pools dimly aware of the oceans beyond have spent too much time fighting with the tompots and rocklings and have not seen how our way lies above with the stars, but not the stripes, nor the arsewipes in Washington, Moscow, Beijing, Tehran, Tel Aviv and Westminster. You cannot tell a viviparous blenny that its young are expendable when they nearly died giving birth to their precious sons and daughters, that the slaughters are justified, though you lied, to save our lives for Yaweh, Allah and the Holy C of CHRistendom tidily um dom dom tiddily um pum pum.
Oh I do like to be beside the seaside, OHHHHHHH! I do like to be beside the sea, OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I do like to stroll along the prom, prom, prom, (softly like a cup cake) Where the brassbands play (croakily) Tiddley-om-pom-pom!
So just let me be beside the seaside, I’ll be beside myself with glee; And there’s lots of girls beside, I should like to be beside, Beside the seaside, beside the sea.