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Bazil Figura

of

Kings Lynn, England, UK

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bazil@figura.freeserve.co.uk (Bazil Figura)

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Hope

by

Bazil Figura

Don’t talk to me of man and gun,
How heroes stand and coward’s run,
Don’t talk to me of bombs that thud,
When hill and vale runs red with blood,
Don’t talk to me of lands and rights,
When bargaining down rifle sights,
Don’t talk to me of cannons roar,
When to me they all mean war.

Don’t talk to me of man and gold,
When people starve both young and old,
Don’t talk to me of planes and cars,
When people sleep beneath the stars,
Don’t talk to me of styles of hair,
When children walk with feet so bare,
Don’t talk to me of who shall lead,
When to me they all mean greed,

Don’t talk to me of speed and haste,
When industry spills toxic waste,
Don’t talk to me of how luck is dealt,
When polar caps begin to melt,
Don’t talk to me of pop star bands,
When people speak by using their hands,
Don’t talk to me of drugs you buy,
When to me it means someone will die,

Don’t talk to me of stocks and shares
When one mistake can cost careers
Don’t talk to me of merchandise
When children labour for a bowl of rice
Don’t talk to me of independence rule
When ethnic cleansing is unjust and cruel
Don’t talk to me of governments that meet
When babies are left to die in the street

But talk to me of family love,
Of your lord god and heaven above,
And talk to me of how to trust,
The confidence to share one’s crust,
And talk to me of peace on land,
With fellow man hand in hand,
And talk to me of how to cope,
When to me it all means hope.

Guitar

by

Bazil Figura

I dream of Wembley arena or the Rose Bowl USA,
Of thousands of people who pay to come and hear me play,
Before me sit my peers Clapton, Dylan even Quo,
As these fingers do the talking the cash begins to flow,
And as I take this instrument of polished wood and string,
The only problem is, I can’t play the bloody thing,
When I go like this or even go like that,
Something seems to tell me it sounds a little flat,
410 lessons I’ve had and I’m now really really wishing,
That the Police soon find my music teacher since he mysteriously went missing,
I been through music teachers like Mata Hari through MI 5,
There not many left in the phone book, in fact there’s not many left alive,
I practice and I practice and give all I have to give,
Most of them run away or lose the will to live,
Like all rock and rollers I smoke a little pot,
But when it comes to playing cords my fingers get in a knot,
I try so hard but still I find it’s a mystery to me,
Cos only cords that I can play are ‘C’ ‘R’ ‘A’ and ‘P’
I’ve tried to live the fast life, be moody and be mean,
But I’d be the only pop star that OD’ed on Oveltine,
I’ve tried going clubbing until the early hours,
I’ve even rubbed shoulders with all the mega stars,
There’s Ester Ranson and Thora Herd but the one’s who are really mad,
I remember the night I went out on the town with the chimps from the Typhoo ad,
I try to play folky stuff, even blues to hit the fame,
But no matter what it is and how it’s played it still all sounds the same,
I’ve tried sharps; I’ve tried flats and even the odd treble clef,
But it doesn’t help in the music world if you happen to be tone deaf,
And who knows one day my genius, a talent scout may find,
But then the words ‘Pigs’ and ‘Fly’ spring readily to mind,
So I’ll keep on strumming loudly and jive like this and that,
Even though my guitar sounds like a strangled cat!

Elvis is dead

by

Bazil Figura

Elvis is dead, he is no more,
So don’t hold your breath he’s not coming through the door,
In trailer parks throughout the US of A,
Are millions of people, who don’t think that way
Called Billy Jo or Mary Beth,

Who refuse to believe in Elvis’s death,
But thousands of saddo’s still want to ignore,
The truth that’s he’s buried six feet in the floor,
He’s not incognito or in disguise,
Or living up a mountain learning to be wise,
He’s not the man you sat next to on the bus,
So don’t get excited or make any fuss,
He’s not living with aliens in outer space,
Or had plastic surgery to change his face,
He’s not collecting trolleys or empting bins,
He just died of over eating for his mortal sins,
The burger grease that hid the pain,
Blocked every artery and swollen vein,
It’s only the good and the young that dies,
But the fat die younger eating burgers and fries,
His star spangled girdle that held back the lard,
Lays stretched and worn out because it worked so hard,

He’s gone for good; so don’t hope to see,
The Elvis comeback ‘live’ on TV,
To believe he’s alive and his arteries didn’t harden,
Is like excepting fairies live at the bottom of the garden,
So get over it, move on, there’s no ‘if’ or ‘but’,
He’s in a hole in the ground, in a box that’s nailed shut,
So ignore reality and truth if you must,
He’s just a pile of old bones and a whole heap of dust,

Reality hits hard but you have to come to terms,
The king of rock and roll has been eaten by worms.

Crash test dummies

by

Bazil Figura

They tie me up, they rope me down,
They drop me from a height,
They use me and abuse me,
I never put up a fight,

I’m set on fire; I’m thrown down stairs,

I’m buried in tons of rubble,
They use me and abuse me,
However, I’m never any trouble,

Because I have no expression,
And polymers are my skin,
Does not mean I have no soul,
And I should never win,

I have never shed a tear,
As the discomfort I try to smoother,
As my head shoots off in one direction,
And my arse goes in another,

I have but small ambitions,
That at the end of a working day,
I dream I still have my arms and legs,
And my head is on the right way,

But I do what I do for the nation,
For through me things are made the right way,
It takes bravery, courage and devotion,
For a job you die in every day,

Scientists and engineers make things safe,
As they read the data that confirms,
I might be a crash test dummy,
But I’m a contradiction in terms,

Checkout

by

Bazil Figura

Beep, the noise that greets you as walk in the door,
Beep, the sound that echo’s round the superstore,
Beep, the rows of tills to infinity extend,
Beep, the hustle and bustle would sent me round the bend,
Beep, the machines own language rhythmic and the same,
Beep, its like living inside a computer game,
Beep, like alien invaders landing on our rock,
Beep, maybe we should communicate like Captain Kirk or Spock,
Beep, the machines are manned by smiling cheerful folk,
Beep, but as I stand in line I fail to see the joke,
Beep, people queue around me in silence and distain,
Beep, the faces show frustration and of tortured pain,
Beep, the checkout clearly marked ten or less items tells,
Beep, of things to be purchased not number of brain cells,
Beep, an attack with a rough pineapple is what I’d love to mount,
Beep, on the rear end of a shopper who clearly cannot count,
Beep, the hands of operators, blurred as they go by,
Beep, as they pick things up to show the magic eye,
Beep, the little windows that shoot a beam of light,
Beep, the flash of red or green to say you’ve got it right,
Beep, go cakes, buns, bread and strawberry jam,
Beep, closely followed by sausages and smoked ham,
Beep, the tins of process peas and cans of fizzy drink,
Beep, the bar code reader reads faster than a blink,
Beep, I’m never lucky or you just might call it fate,
Beep, I never find a trolley that runs exactly straight,
Beep, the people struggle to load the conveyer belt,
Beep, as children smash the eggs and ice cream starts to melt,
Beep, architects created space for us to roam around,
Beep, but kids believe and act as if there’ in a big playground,
Beep, the answer to the question when patience finally is cracked,
Beep, is why mothers bring their children to supermarkets to get smacked,
Beep, but the only time there’s wailing and the panic goes quite deep,
Is when the checkout finally refuses to go ___Beep!

Garden Shed

by

Bazil Figura

That bastion of manliness, that fortress made of wood,
When men retreat to for solitude more often if we could,
As refugees in search of peace, we leave all hassle and move,
And seek solace in that sacred place, that womb of tongue and grove,
When life resembles a storm beneath a dark and raging cloud,
Mainly due to the wife’s volume control when it’s frequently stuck on loud,
For once, the door is firmly closed by the sound of a falling latch,
Thus begins a state of utopia that no professional therapy can match,
For gardening or model making or the delights of producing home brew,
The advantages of a garden shed, the average woman just hasn’t got a clue,
There are shelves on which to stack things and hooks from which to hang,
There are selections of saws to cut with and hammers for to bang
With jam jars neatly labelled and filled with screws, nails,
The method by which you find things is understood only by males,
Most have a radio to listen too; some have a kettle for tea,
And occasionally a few have a comfy chair in front of a small TV,
We potter around doing gardening and fixing things when they break,
And it doesn’t matter if we swear and curse should a mistake we make,
For inside our citadel of shiplap guarded by creosote and felt,
We’re protected from a world of woes and the hand life has dealt,
For this green and pleasant land was created for you and me,
For without our garden sheds life would hold reason to be,
So although it’s typically English and typically misunderstood,
The mysteries that lay within are a force for decency and good,

Goldfish

by

Bazil Figura

Swimming round the goldfish bowl you’d think is a bit of a bore,
There aren’t any windows and there isn’t any door,
There aren’t any walls and there isn’t any floor,
Swimming round the goldfish bowl you’d think is a bit of a bore,

Swimming round the goldfish bowl people stand and stare,
I see their mouths a - moving but I alas can not hear,
But as I can speak neither I really do not care,
Swimming round the goldfish bowl people stand and stare,

Swimming round the goldfish bowl is all that can be done,
I don’t get to meet many people and I don’t get to have much fun,
I have no arms to clap with and have no legs to run,
Swimming round the goldfish bowl is all that can be done,

Swimming round the goldfish bowl is to me an utter delight,
Its clockwise in the morning then the opposite at night,
Up and down, fast and slow, left and to the right,
Swimming round the goldfish bowl is to me an utter delight,

Swimming round the goldfish bowl is new to me each day,
I have an ten second memory, I was made that way,
So what I see and what I do never ever stay,
Swimming round the goldfish bowl is new to me each day,

Alone

by

Bazil Figura

I lay alone inside my room,
I sob myself to sleep,
I am alone in this world now,
I have no relationship deep,
No woman to share my breakfast,
No woman to share my bed,
No woman to share my life with,
No woman that I can wed,
So little interest do they show in me,
So little explanation as to why,
So little time to put things right,
So little wonder I cry.