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Standing on the platform - waiting
Checking - watching - hesitating.
Anxiously anticipating
missed connections - how frustrating!
What to do? - deliberating.
This or that? - now vacillating.
Passengers communicating
mutually commiserating.
Then the news - infuriating.
Train is CANCELLED.
Mass migrating.
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When
you are born there's a form
to say that you've arrived
upon this form you are released.
And when you finally kick the bucket
there are forms to say you are deceased.
And
if by chance you've worked
some overtime
and earn an extra pound or two.
There's lots of forms you must complete
with every detail nice and neat
they're for the Inland Revenue.
When you have given them the facts
they say the whole damn lot is taxable
and payment's OVERDUE.
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I
am the very model of a modern telly addict
and I must admit I have become addicted to the habit
I watch everything from early morning, right up to the
finish
till my bottom feels like leather and my eyesight is
diminished.
I
know the names of all the television personalities
their families and lovers, all their strange peculiarities.
I've followed David Attenborough coping with the Tetze
fly
and know the mating habits of baboons and hippopotami.
I've
watched the demonstrations in the art of kitchen cookery
and how to build a barbecue inside your garden rockery.
I guess I am a hopeless case, I'd like to kick the habit,
but I really am the model of a modern telly addict.
From
interviews with Royalty, to forecasting the weather
I watch every single programme till my knees are stuck
together
and I utilise each moment, seize each golden opportunity
to watch repeats of "Neighbours" with a feeling
of impunity.
I've
bought the washing powders all the advertisers advocate
and exercised with all those ladies, hoping I will lose
some weight.
I've watched the documentaries, the news and daily dramas,
The Open University, while wearing my pyjamas.
I
know that it is time for bed, my body says it's time
to go,
but then I watch the programmes I've recorded on the
video.
I never miss a minute, if the chance is there I grab
it.
'Cos I really am the model of a modern telly addict.
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IN OLD GLOSSOP
Living
in Glossop is wonderful
it's a beautiful place to be.
The people and the scenery
are of a high degree.
But
once you get into Glossop
you can never get out again,
for there's so many people in Glossop
THAT THE ROADS CAN'T TAKE THE STRAIN.
The
hillsides that we used to see
in shades of brown and green,
are densely covered in houses
with a blade of grass between.
The
Councillors who passed the plans
would stand up and explain
how we should cope with roads
THAT CANNOT TAKE THE STRAIN.
They've
filled up all of Simmondley
and most of Shirebrook Park.
Old Glossop is the next in line
to bear the Builders' mark.
To
pass this new development
seems totally insane:
when roads are so congested
THAT THEY CANNOT TAKE THE STRAIN.
And
now, it is proposed once more
to take Old Glossop's land
And they will build more houses
in a town already crammed.
The
local folk will stand to lose
while other people gain.
But no amount of talk will help
THE ROADS THAT TAKE THE STRAIN.
So
you who are in charge of things
For God's sake - think again!
Don't let us down - protect our town,
'COS THE ROADS CAN'T TAKE THE STAIN.
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