Untroubled I am by the burden of genius I struggle with words to find something to say. Life potters on - a distraction from boredom, An attempt to stay solvent and living each day. I'd like to be original; I know I'm derivative. I wear my influences on open display I grew up in colours I liked it that way. Now I look in the mirror And only see grey. Look out of the window Watching the river flow by Look up to the skyscape Clouds making shapes in the sky. Make rhythms and colours from sounds that surround me Watch how the wind shapes the river. It changes each day. Turn back to the blank page Ink out a doodle. I’m thinking in colour, but everything’s grey. I hear my friends talking like proper songwriters Of choruses, verses, key changes and all; Of intros and outros and middle-eight solos, Of descending bass lines and dominant chords. I just tell stories or capture a moment And fool myself it’s my inimitable way. I imagine the colour in all that I say. Then I look at the writing and only see grey. Look out of the window Watching the river flow by Look up to the skyscape Clouds making shapes in the sky. Head full of music. It’s all just the same tune. The rhythms are boring and everything’s in the same key. Turn back to the blank page Ink out a doodle. Another creation that nobody needs! If I get close to finishing something important I'll go and make supper though cooking’s a chore. I could be at practice, or even rehearsing, Or finishing something I started before. I've books upon books of half-started writing Or half-finished music that sits in a drawer. The songs I’ve completed don’t leap off the score I've started to practise them ten times or more. Switch on the computer Download the e-mails and weed out the spam. Log into a forum, Post in a thread, show how clever I am. Share things on Facebook (too much information) Leaving a trail through a garden of weeds. One game of Tetris, one hand of Spider Leaving a legacy nobody needs. Sitting here pondering all my shortcomings The list's getting longer and so is this song I'll never be finished so maybe it's better if I simply stop … (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)

Blame it on me and call me unreliable The country’s deep in debt and who else is to blame? The evidence of my collusion seems to be deniable; Multi-national interests play the banking game. Let’s talk about debt. You know the cash we need to borrow to pay off for stuff we’ve bought. Straightforward and yet We’ve got it all in such a muddle that a puddle becomes a lake Then an ocean of sweat. So the banker sells the debt on, like it really is a thing. When everybody knows it’s all a scam. Like a pass-the-parcel nobody would ever want to win. Sell it on, breathe again. Then you scram And then you …. Let’s talk about home. Supposed to be safe as a castle. It’s modest, but it’s your own. The family grows. You proudly watch as they grow older and before you know what’s happening This is what goes - The place you’ve lived for forty years, you’re told is under-occupied. You pay the tax or move, but there is nowhere to go. The government has stitched you up and you know they mock you by mishandling the shortfall. Frankly no one wants to know and so you …. Let’s talk about waste. You know, the stuff that proves we’ve been here and that we don’t want to see. Just flush it away Or you bury it or burn it and the residue will turn up on your doorstep one day. Money changes hands to make the most of our excess. Profit for the greedy from our profligacy. You’ll never see the fires burn in the gardens of the rich. You're the one whose lungs are trashed. Ain’t life a bitch. So go on … Let’s talk about tax. You know the share that you and I give to the man to keep things smooth. Let’s look at the facts - You and me, we’re simply too small to set up in offshore havens Look at the list of names in the polling booth. Were we international would pay our share? We’d register head office in a place where no one goes. Amazon and Google, Starbucks and all the others Tell us it’s all legal. Meanwhile everybody knows you’re gonna … Let’s talk about health When you’re feeling good it’s groovy. You’re the king of all you see Apportioning wealth - it’s a game but when you need help You become a punter in a postcode lottery. The NHS once shone like jewels in Britain’s post-war crown On principle health treatment came for free But now it’s nearly all sold off, you’d better not come down With something you can’t treat yourself because you’ll soon see how they … Blame it on me and call me unreliable The country’s deep in debt and who else is to blame? The evidence of my collusion seems to be deniable; Multi-national interests play the banking game. (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)

Goliath said to David, “Hey, man, it’s time to pay! You’ve lived here free for centuries and, if you want to stay, Dig deep into your pocket and give me what you owe. And, if you don’t deliver, hey man it’s time to go!” It’s time to go, time to go Loose the ropes, pull the pins. Adieu, adagio. It’s time to go, time to go. The tigers won your freedom, but now it’s time to go. David turned in wonder at the brass of such a thing. It’s true he’d always been here, But listen, here’s the thing. When, long ago, adventurers stole the wetlands from the poor To stop the Tigers wrecking wrote free passage into law You can’t tell us it’s time, time to go Loose the ropes, pull the pins. Adieu, adagio. Time, time to go. The tigers won your freedom, but now it’s time to go. That statute stood for centuries. Each time the law was changed The one remaining constant is the freedom we retained To travel unimpeded on the drains that gift you land. Travel with no toll to pay, rejecting out of hand That it’s time to go, time to go. Loose the ropes, pull the pins. Adieu, adagio. It’s time to go, time to go. The tigers won our freedom, we’ll choose when it’s time to go. (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)

Dear Mr Carter, May I thank you for your letter of condolence that you sent me on the sixth of May. You could not have been politer, but you're clearly not a writer when you muddle up your pronouns in this careless way. Are you singular or plural? “Royal Wes” sometimes obscure all sense of meaning undermining what you mean to say. But despite some reservations you mean well, although I fear your near dismissal. Your epistle isn't clear. Dear Mr Carter, May I thank you for your letter of condolence that you sent me on the sixth of May. It was nice to get your letter, but I hoped for something better than your startling vignette that I had passed away. It wasn't even recently, but rather more indecently you wrote that I'd been buried long ago and so I say That, as an agent of the council, is it right that you renounce all normal courtesies when writing day-to-day. Dear Mr Carter, May I thank you for your letter of condolence least expected of deliveries this year. Almost churlish now to mention, but there is a wee convention that a letter to the buried might seem insincere. Plot XYZ280 my abode, but still quite weighty my concern that still you spurn it to address me here, Mill Road, Walpole St Peter, undeniably a feat of intuition. Recognition somewhat queer. Whether Walpole now or Gayton it is clear there is a weight on my shoulders since I don't know which is my abode, my domicile or dwelling and the strain is surely telling. There must be some administrative way to ease my load? Dear Mr Carter, May I thank you for your letter of condolence that arrived here Thursday, May the twelfth. Now I'm dead what are my options beyond council tax reduction? I don't mean to cause a ruction, Let's just blame my health. As you note I've been ill lately you know I would be greatly obligé if you’d delegate me a rebate by stealth. No confession would be needed if you heeded my request to do your best to add a little to my wealth. Dear Mr Carter May I thank you for your letter of condolence from the bottom of my beating heart. And the leaflet you enclose will come in handy, I suppose, in my repose and heaven knows will give a flying start To my life in the hereafter. If you'll please excuse the laughter while I sing about a grafter who will soon depart From his office at the council if he doesn't soon renounce all stupid letters. THAT WOULD MAKE A DECENT START! Exasperation’s what I’m feeling while i’m reeling from your spieling In the matter of bereavement and my family’s needs. Experience embarrassment occasioned by this harassment. Stick to writing mission statements - crap that no one reads! So Dear Mr Carter May I thank you for your letter of condolence that you sent me on the sixth of May. I so want to be offended, but least said is soonest mended. You intended no offence, so I ought to say That, when writing people letters, better show them to your betters before posting as a roasting is unsightly, rightly. Pray Remember recently bereaved become aggrieved when we receive some pointless note, sent out by rote (and lest my fingers seek your throat) don’t you dare try to wish me a nice day. (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)

Mrs Potter was a witch (all the children knew). Migaldi Magaldi, raggle and taggle! At night upon a broom she flew. Scrawny, skinny, grubby pinny, screeching scared me. Big boys dared me. I’d seen them in their bravado, gathering outside and calling, “Pansy Potter! Pansy Potter! Smelly old witch in a caravan. Come and chase us with your stick and catch us if you can.” The curtains twitched, the door flung wide. The miserable woman hobbled outside. She waved her stick. She cursed and cried and everyone turned and ran. “Scarper, boys, as fast as you can!” My mother said to keep away. Then spoke to her one day. Migaldi Magaldi raggle and taggle, old Pansy screeched, “Scum overspill!” Mum thought it best to avoid a scene and, with a tear she turned away. It wasn’t that she didn’t care … the boys came back and started calling, “Pansy Potter! Pansy Potter! Smelly old witch in a caravan … She always made me curious about life in a caravan. Migaldi Magaldi raggle and taggle! I’d chant her name as I ran “Pansy Potter, Pansy Potter,” round and round in my head. “She’s a gypsy,” my best friend said, “And she knows spells to strike you dead!” All the boys knew, but still they came. So brave they were to chant her name … “Pansy Potter! Pansy Potter! Smelly old witch in a caravan … My best friend and I tried it once, we hid by a bush and called her names. Migaldi Magaldi raggle and taggle, Stupid kiddies’ games! I didn’t feel brave and I couldn’t see why the big boys liked to make her cry. I caught a glimpse of a widow who just wanted to be left alone. Decades ago the trailers were cleared, the gardens dug up, the site was sold. The boys had grown up and to a man they followed the town development plan. They honoured a creed that clearly states, “You must speculate to accumulate.” But what about Pansy? Is she ever given a thought? No memorial marking the ground where she walked. It’s hallowed. Your feet are cursed. Mrs. Potter, whose grandma were you? (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)

Every day on your way as you drive home from work There’s a place that you go where the gentlemen lurk There’s some would deny they are manly at all You know different, you’ve heard the call. Everyone there has this thing on his mind And it gnaws and it chews at you. Much of the time You can deny who you are, but you lie to yourself Save for this contribution to your mental health. Then you poison your body with his body, poison your heart with his mind, Poison your soul with his lack of control, every time. Stop the car by the trees you won’t be alone. Hide your wallet, your keys and your mobile phone. Take off your tie and fold it up neat under the paper on the passenger seat. Then you wait and you watch and pretend not to see, Read a book, have a smoke, or simply feign sleep, While you check out the talent through nearly closed eyes. Such abundance of choice Mother Nature supplies. Then you poison your body with his body, poison your heart with his mind, Poison your soul with his lack of control, every time. If no one approaches raise the game The rules of the hunt very rarely change. Leave the car, lock the door with barely a sound And into the wood where you hope you’ll be found. Find a place in a space where the cover is good. Then you stand and you wait in this threatening wood. Take a leak, feel relief, your heart skips a beat At the crack of a twig and approaching feet. Then you poison your body with his body, poison your heart with his mind, Poison your soul with your lack of control, every time. Look away. Then a glance. Then the flash of an eye. Then you turn to display and the tension is high. Recognise, as you rise, here’s a partner in shame; How he looks doesn’t matter since he won’t know your name. Look around to make sure that there’s no one else there. Slowly close in and continue to stare. You don’t know who you are, but you know who you aren’t. You can’t fight it off, so continue the dance. First a touch, just a brush, and you feel you will burst. But that’s cool. Then at least you’ll be over the worst And you won’t have to stay in this terrible place With a chance, just a glance and he’ll remember your face. So go with the flow and you feel the relief Of the thrill as you spill in the cheery belief That you’ll never come back, but you know it’s a lie And you’ll always be drawn no matter how hard you try. Then you poison his body with your body, poison his heart with your mind, Poison his soul with your lack of control, every time. Nod your goodbyes and you get in your car. Then you drive to the pub for a quick half-jar Just to steady your nerves, get your reasoning straight As to why you’ll arrive home tonight slightly late. What to do? Where to go? You are living a lie. What you do might be fun, but it’s obvious why There’s no sense of pride, just this burden of shame And you’re looking for a love that still won’t dare say its name. Then you poison her body with your body, poison her heart with your mind, Poison her soul with your lack of control, every time. Only fair, if you care, every once in a while That you go to the clinic where they’ll add to the file That they keep on your health in your fictitious name And where the staff know the score in this sad, sad game. They’ll listen and nod while you make up some tale. As they check out your piss and your blood you regale Them with the story that you don’t know how you got in this state, But they know they can never trust a smiling straight. So poison a body with a body, poison a heart with a mind, Poison a soul with lack of control, every time. (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)

Fifty feet of steel, Travel where you will Plough a furrow through the Fen, Go wherever you feel That's home. No place like home. Sleep in your own bed. Don't leave your room. Every night a new place. Be home soon. Feel that engine roar. Watch the river part. Glide your way to somewhere new, hope in your heart. That's home. No place like home. Stoke the fire. Cosy nest. Don't leave your room. Every night a new place. Be home soon. New pace of life - four miles an hour The weather shows no mercy save for wind and sun and shower That's home. No place like home. Closer than you've ever been Don't leave your room. Every night a new place. Be home soon. Perch and roach and bream, your aquarium The raw and arching sky, your solarium. That's home. No place like home. Hang the rest, do your thing Don't leave your room. Every night a new place. Be home soon. (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)

Kingfisher sitting on the prow of the boat Lean on the tiller all the livelong day. Kingfisher sitting on the prow of the boat He’ll keep a-fishing, I’ll keep afloat. Lean, lean, lean on the tiller all the livelong day. Ten fine swans with plumage fine Lean on the tiller all the livelong day. Ten fine swans with plumage fine Swim on the river in a dead straight line. Lean, lean, lean on the tiller all the livelong day. I’ll lean on the tiller like you lean on a gate From the crack of dawn till the evening late Watch my wash as I wend my way Lean on the tiller all the livelong day Fish close in for scraps from my platter Lean on the tiller all the livelong day. Fish close in for scraps from my platter Here comes Mr Pike watch them scatter. Lean, lean, lean on the tiller all the livelong day. Cormorants sitting on a telephone line Lean on the tiller all the livelong day. Cormorants sitting on a telephone line Eyeing those fish all looking so fine Lean, lean, lean on the tiller all the livelong day. I’ll lean on the tiller like you lean on a gate From the crack of dawn till the evening late Watch my wash as I wend my way Lean on the tiller all the livelong day The sadness in this cabaret Lean on the tiller all the livelong day The sadness in this cabaret See the mink that swims this way. Lean, lean, lean on the tiller all the livelong day. I’ll lean on the tiller like you lean on a gate From the crack of dawn till the evening late Watch my wash as I wend my way Lean on the tiller all the livelong day There’s more to tell about life on the river Lean on the tiller all the livelong day. There’s more to tell about life on the river But if I told you all you’d shiver and quiver. Lean, lean, lean on the tiller all the livelong day. (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)

Many songs are sung of life and loves both won and lost Celebration of the living seems to come at such a cost. But when Mama told your story it was hard to stem the tears At the bravery and the wisdom of a man so few in years. Damn you! Damn you, enchiladas! You may have won this time, but I shall beat you next time round. Chemotherapy has made a shadow out of me, But I shall beat you. Damn you, enchiladas! Where do ideas come from when we haven’t read great minds Sharing words of comfort when it wasn’t yet your time. You shared the love of ancestors who reached you through thin air. The wonder of their being was that only you saw them there. Damn you! Damn you, enchiladas! You may have won this time, but I shall beat you next time round. Chemotherapy has made a shadow out of me, But I shall beat you. Damn you, enchiladas! Sickness stole your childhood and the treatment stole your youth. But George took on the dragon after digging up some truth And planted in that hole some seeds of hope that grew so tall. Against the odds the oil of life was burning after all. Damn you! Damn you, enchiladas! You may have won this time, but I shall beat you next time round. Chemotherapy has made a shadow out of me, But I shall beat you. Damn you, enchiladas! Papa saw you smiling and your foot began to tap At the songs of this cock crowing with his sounds that overlap. This was something massive when such sounds could leave you cold. From three days left to audience was something to behold! Damn you! Damn you, enchiladas! You may have won this time, but I shall beat you next time round. Chemotherapy has made a shadow out of me, But I shall beat you. Damn you, enchiladas! (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)

There are no ghosts, but as I sit here Memories are shimmering on the edge of recall. The shadow of a thought of a recollection. Nothing more will focus but I feel I want to scribble Half a word, half a sketch while I’m sitting in this unaccustomed quiet In your place. Silence gives way, splintered by memory The howl of your laughter uncoils in an echo of a thought. I thought you were brave. Or was it just persistence? You must have been strong so I feel I want to share half a smile and a tear While I’m sitting in this unaccustomed quiet In your place. We never quite said what was important. Instead we sent e-mails and kept each other amused. You tried to recruit another campaigner, But I turned you down so I feel I want to share half a word, half a line While I’m sitting in this unaccustomed quiet In your place. Those things never shared You knew that I meant them. You should have rejected me, but you took me in as one of your own. You thanked me many times for making him happy. I think we should have hugged. You should have had a new hat. In your place of private grief and hilarious meals I shed a tear, In your place. It’s strange how in death I sing out to reach you. We put you in the ground and that’s where you’ll always be. Sometimes you feel near; those memories shimmer. We could not have been more different, but I feel I want to sing half a line, half a song while I’m sitting in this unaccustomed quiet In your place. (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)

How can you say I’m sexy when I’m sixty-three years old? At our age most prefer to think that passion long ago grew cold, But you throw petrol on my fire and, if the truth be told, We’re burning bright, let’s burn all night! Even though we’re old We’re burning bright, let’s burn all night! Even though we’re older My sight is too far gone to see that you’re no longer young. Liver spots and wrinkles never seem to stop us having fun. The meals we make taste just as good and when the eating’s done We’ll sit at the table laugh and talk. Who needs to be young We’ll sit at the table laugh and talk. Who needs to be younger Deep within your gaze, I see that glint that’s just for me. Each gentle touch excites me more than anyone has a right to be! All these years I’ve loved you and your love has made me free. Let’s stay together ever more; you, my love, and me! Let’s stay together ever more; you, my love, and me! Sex is wasted on the young. They think they know the score. Your kisses and caresses make me want to love you more and more And more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more. But it matters not (well, not a lot) when sex becomes a chore. It matters not (no, not a lot) when sex becomes a chortle! (Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)