Epigraph: The Only Road There Is

by Ann Drysdale

When the midwife slaps our arses and initiates our clocks,
She starts us on our journey from the hard place to the rocks
And off we go like billy-oh, our little legs a blur,
Until we reach the finish and we’re back to where we were.
It’s a really rotten swindle, it’s a monumental chizz;
We can’t believe it’s happening although we know it is.
We are on the road to nowhere, we are riding for a fall,
We are dying, Egypt, dying. O God! O Montreal!
We start by asking questions in the flowering of our youth
And try disguising ancient lies as universal truth.
We look at things in mirrors and we practise to deceive
And since we’re only human and we’re eager to believe
That we deserve a better way than all before have trod,
We go in search of holy men to broker deals with God.
We do the things they tell us in a wild desire to please;
We read the words that comfort us as though they’re recipes
And serve up variations in an individual size,
Like “Rosebud”, “Bugger Bognor” and “Bellamy’s veal pies”.

 


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