The Next Society . . . The Next World

Do not give your soul to him,
But do not live a life of sin.
Live for yourself, only for you,
Don't be pessimistic, don't be blue.
Don't give a cent to the other man,
Save as much money as you can,
Spend it all, have a spree,
It's your life and you are free.
If he's not got a cent to spend
He should borrow from a friend.
If he's got not mates to peck,
He should hang weights around his neck,
Then jump in the sea and forget to swim,
And he would be in the land of Him.
The land of him, a funny land
A feudal place, under one big man.
The people must pay to live with him
and they must stay all very trim.
Once out of place, then they will fall,
They will have a lovely ball;
Immorality, gambling and drink
This is a place that'll make you think.
It's Hell all right and you never know,
This night could be when you will go.

Chris Loft # 9 1968

The Witch

The old lady's a witch, the villagers say,
One spell in her cauldron and you're away.
She roams around the place at nights
Talking to her cat, it gives me frights.
If she caught you snooping, looking at 'er pot
She'd stare at you, and, like as not,
You'd fall down dead, bust your 'ead.
She's got powders in funny jars,
and the back room's locked, with bars.
There's many a man, 'as met 'is doom,
and lost his blood, in that back room.
Stares at the moon, and on a full,
She'll kill a cow, or kill a bull.
She flies around, on 'er broom at night,
Yair, she's a witch, a witch all right.

Chris Loft #8 1968

Stillness

In the night
All is still
Or is it?
Switch on the light
Sudden movement
Ants, hundreds of them
Tearing apart a cricket

Lift up a stone
Insects, now still with fear
Frightened by the sudden light
Eggs are quickly and hastily rescued
Into the ground they are taken
Switch off the light, how still is the night
But wait - listen - a kitten mewed

Switch on the light once more
There, under the floor, a kitten
Cut by the glass of a pigeon house
The kitten struggles nd tries to reach the grass
But petrified by the tinkling of glass
and the way it hurts and is sore
It lies still and whimpers for aid

Chris Loft #7 1968

At Christmas

Snow is falling gently
Falling softly to the ground
Flakes of different sizes
Fluttering softly, 'round and 'round.
All is white, it is like,
A coffin in a silver shroud.

Children sliding on the ice
Shouting of their joy and cold
In the snow, a snowman's built
His clothes of snow and his heart of gold
Smoking his pipe, like he always did
Like he always did, in the days of old

Snowballs are flying, Christmas is in the air
Hearts are glowing, Christmas is coming
Trees and houses are all decorated
Children, wrapping gifts, singing or humming
All the children are hoping, hopes over rated?
A doll's house, a train set, maybe something big will be freighted.

Chris Loft #6 1968

Money and Me

Counting money, chink chick.
Hoardes of it, just think,
Riches, jewels, fancy clothes
Ink red rubies, sapphires 'tween my toes.

Sharing out money
To give to the poor.
Old misers have too much
Poor things, they want more.

Hoardes and hoardes of honey,
Expensive drinks and food,
rich foods they don't even eat like they should.

Juices they do away with, they only have fermented honey,
Leaving money to give to the poor.

One thousand pounds I don't need any more,
Four hundred thousand to give to the poor,
To give is better, if you don't need it no more.

Chris Loft #5 1968

Toil, Envy, Want, the Patron and the Gaol

I went to London where the streets are paved with gold,
But "all that glisters is not gold", often have I heard this told,
Now I must work, to get me bread and to stop the cold.

"Fie, fie, faint-hearted Knight," say I, I wish I were a man,
A man like Hercules, big and strong
Or a man like Apollo, never wrong.
I want to be, but I cannot, and alas I have forgot,
I must thank Him for what I am, ha-ha . . . the fat man in the pan?
I want to be, and though I can't, I'll ask until he says I shan't.

I am the patron, but of what? The church is empty of my self,
My prayer book, dusty, new, untouched upon the shelf.
The public bar I won't go in, for there I will find sin;
Or will I? They're all happy inside, happy and gay,
and I'm very thirsty. A beer, gin, whiskey. Hey, I say!
. . . . I've had a tink or two, now I must think anew.

Chris Loft 1968