(after Horace Ode 1.33 Albi, ne doleas)

Forget it, Phil, just ditch the fiery redhead.           
Stop writing endless poems to dear sweet Ann.
Her sort are all the same: they let you down,
her new bloke’s not good-looking, but he’s strong.

I tell you, lad, all this, it’s just a game.
You must remember Ricky, how he worshipped
Bella’s form and how he hung on every word.
But Dave was in her sonnets and her bed.

Remember how we said ‘it’ll end in tears,
Bella’s going to get what’s coming, that’s for sure’.
We knew back then how love hurts and how Venus
throws most unlikely pairs into the sack.

And surely you remember my fiasco
how I chose a so-called hero who was strong
enough to give me space and let me breathe,
yet decided night and day and tied my tongue.

(after Horace Ode 1.34 Parcus deorum cultor)

I do still pray, but like a little kid
I only shut one eye to think of God:
The other eye’s possessed by poetry
and glaring at my mates who’re obsessed too.

Being Catholic, mea culpa, I retrace
my steps across familiar ground, although
you’d get a coach and horses through the hole
in faith that until now has served me well.

The creative course I’ve taken makes me reel
then shakes me to the core.  I’m being crowned
by the tidal wave of knowledge in my head.
Yes, I’ve gained an insane wisdom, but I’m lost

and the instability’s led me straight to hell
where I’m dizzied in a labyrinth of learning,
by the twists and turns of too much information.
It’s more than I can bear without God’s help.

For only God has power to ring the changes
ensure the first is last and last is first.
With one shrill cry, sweet chance can snatch the ivy
from the laureate’s head and crown the little man.

(after Horace Ode1.35 O diva, gratum)

Chance guides everything in Ironopolis.
Round here, we say, that’s life; it’s just a fluke.
You make it or you end up on the scrap heap.
All we ever ask’s an even break.Old ironmen just want a fighting chance,
and so do those who’re not of steely stock.
All of us who live here by the Tees
pray we’ll have another stroke of luck.

We all got on our bikes in nineteen fifty
and pedalled way beyond our cast-iron world.
We left the north in droves; the intelligentsia
and the workers and the bosses. Everyone

needs Fortune, even poets.  That’s the reason
they huddle close together in a scrum
of seething academic literati
in case scholastic posts should tumble down.

And always here, the mother of invention
with hand-me-downs, and let’s make-do-and-mends.
Her never-mind, we’ll make the best of it;
her let’s-forget-it shrugs black-lead her eyes.

Fortune’s left the North-East coast, it seems,
but loyal to old ways, we still have hope,
(if only in small pockets).  We hang on,
we stand and watch while chance flies out the door. 

The good-time-girls and entrepreneurial chancers,
the short-term do-good-Johnnies, all have gone:
Even friends who shared each other’s burdens
have disappeared now the trough’s run dry.

God bless our Teesside poets and politicians
Who stick their necks out trying to spread a word
of optimistic caution about the north.
Let’s hope along the line, they shake things up.

And shame on us up here who dump our own,
then join the trendy set of dog-eat-dog.
We rifle what we can and leave the scars;
forget what makes us great and run away.

Our young fear nothing now, not consequence
nor fate nor God, so, Fortune, please come back
from oily eastern shores.  Re-hone us all.
Re-fabricate your workers and your bards.

(after Horace Ode 1.36 Et ture et fidibus)

This round’s on me, come on, lads, name your poison
and pass the ciggies round.  Who wants pork scratchings?
Let’s all enjoy ourselves.  I’ve sweated blood –
to get this little shindig off the ground.

As soon as Dave comes in we’ll give three cheers.
Thank God he’s back on the northern scene again
He’ll read some poems and have high-fives especially
for our mate Danny, here, his boyhood hero –

the two of them cut poetry teeth together
in Boro pubs.  We’ve all turned out tonight
so make the most of it.  Let’s have a slam
and blast our voices way beyond the Tees.

We mustn’t let these Geordies or the Mackems
outdrink us Smoggies on a night like this.
Scatter poetry pamphlets on the benches
and pile our hard-back words up on the table,

then feast your eyes on all the Tyne and Wear boys
they’ll slap our writing buddy on the back.
Because he packed his poems and played away
they’ll cling to him like ivy, just you watch.

Notes:  Middlesbrough on Teesside is known locally as The Boro
Geordies is a colloquial term for people from Tyneside and Mackems is a colloquial term for those who live in Sunderland.  Smoggies is a colloquial name for those from Teesside.

(after Horace Ode 1.37 Nunc est bibendum)

At last we breathe a huge sigh of relief.
Now let’s sit back and watch the fun and games.
Time to stock committee rooms with claret:
till lately just one glass was out of reach,

the birch-keen crazy woman saw to that.
Power-mad, she tanked-up on the Falklands
then with her rotten cronies took our capital,
and poll-taxed poor pensioners and poets.
Now she’s brought to heel: (though having once
survived like Cleopatra and her ships),
rejected by her own, a sober thought,
she sees the proper battle on her hands.

While in the wings the hawkish Michael waits
to peck this honourable monster carcass clean.
But the Carlton Club’s most honorary member
stares her crushed society in the face.

She chose her poison, took it like a man
enjoyed defeat and didn’t do a U-turn.
The media didn’t march the Iron Lady
before us as a rusty washed-up has-been.

(after Horace Ode 1.38 Persicos odi)

What’s with all this fancy talk m’dear?
Stuff your silver words they leave me cold.
I don’t need measured lines, well-formed and folded,
or accents buffed until they all but shine.

For goodness sake stop fussing over lyrics;
admittedly exotic lyrics suit you
and me as well, but still I think we two
should make sweet music, have ourselves a break.