Dan Lake – Man of Kent

Antique Furniture Restorer, Cabinet Maker, Musician, Bricklayer and talented poet, I ought to hate him having so many natural abilties but I manage to curb my jealousy. I first met Dan when he had just written a book of his childhood in war torn Strood, one of the Medway towns in Kent, called “Innocence, Ignorance and Intolerance”and I helped him to edit it, it is a brilliant book of local social history which really deserves to find a publisher. You will see from his poetry that Dan is also an accomplished poet and he has joined forces with Lulu G to publish a book displaying their combined talents entitled “I won’t Dance If You Don’t Sing”. I can’t wait to get a copy….. J.C.

Like Lulu, Dan is a prolific poet and I regularly update his writing, adding new ones at the top of the page. . . . . .

26th January 2010 – Yesterday Dan and Lulu’s promised new book hit the streets and is now available to purchase from:-


The other good news is that they have also signed their second book deal . . . . Watch this space . . . . .

This one is one of Dan’s poems in the book

Greying Hair

How silly can this old man be who writes with greying hair?
A pink patch on my head to see and nasal hair to spare.
What happens twixt that time in life where functions are full bore?
When a smile got an erection but now bending down’s a chore.

I try to say the cool things but then grandkids laugh aloud,
I’m called to boot by young men, once I was tall and proud,
I’m nothing more than someone who now takes a vacant chair,
Who has to think a second as he walks out on the stair.

The mirror and the seasons tell the truth just who I am,
No longer Jack the Lad or a Rolling Stone young fan,
I try to see young logic but I haven’t got a clue,
The madness of a daft old man who’s still in love with you.

Dan Lake




Added 9th March 2010 – I did describe him as prolific !

Bring Back Oliver Cromwell

Bring back Oliver Cromwell
You scourge of the leeching class.
You factious few, you prostitutes
Not fit to wipe his arse.
Contempt of enemies of state,
Of mercenary wretches,
Bartered conscience’s for bribes
You warlocks, thieves and witches.

Bring back Oliver Cromwell,
To turn again this place,
To one of pride, the mother of all
Where high we hold our face.
Take away your shining bauble’s
Trounce you wicked whores,
With immoral principal, lack of care.
That we might lock these doors !

Bring back Oliver Cromwell…..

Derived from the so called Oliver Cromwell’s speech, 
when he dissolved Parliament

Dan Lake




A place called Si

It nestles unassumingly
beneath the high North Down,
A jewel called Reigate draws me back,
an ancient market town.
I’ve walked among its busy streets
in sunshine and in snow,
When Christmas trees adorned with lights
enhanced the High Streets glow.

Grand restaurants and bistro’s stand
where businessmen convene,
And lovers idle precious time
enjoying haute cuisine.
And one Italian diner is
a magnet just for me,
A special place that I adore
that eating place called Si.

It’s here we sit my love and I
among its Latin fare,
We laugh and while merrily
among the people there.
Our waitress Dania cares for us
as though we were her own,
And though the restaurant is full
We feel we are alone.

We kiss, shake hands and wave farewell
and say a fond goodbye,
Then plan our eager, prompt return,
on this you can rely.

Dan Lake




Carpets of Delight

A pirouetting princess fills her mind,
She saw her walking tall with perfect style,
Her chasse with her feet, perfect aligned,
She’d curtsey just to see her mother smile…

Those memories faded as the car drew near,
She saw the driver look her up and down.
Tired and cold she smiled through the fear
Then saw him drive off heading for downtown.

The dragon must be fed she felt the pain,
Her bony body ached for heroin,
Here comes another car, she’d try again,
He stopped, the door opened and she got in.

Her body used, her trick had dropped her back,
She hadn’t got enough to fill her vein.
Should she go and score some cheaper crack,
Or try to get another trick again?

In headlights she appeared, a mannequin,
Disjointed and surreal in the night.
She’d enjoyed the company of mandarins
Fat men with power taking her delight.

She’d stepped out on the carpets to excite,
In evening gowns of sequined silk so fine,
No feeling of remorse or cold contrite.
No thought to how her world could just decline.


How did this happen? How the puissant fell,
So quickly down the stairs from seeds she’d sewed.
Another car another tortured hell
She drove off with her saviour…down the road.

Dan Lake



Charity starts at Home

When will my country say to me your country cares for you,
When will we see that British folk will be considered too.
How long must tax paying citizens, work hard to see their pay,
Poured down the drain as water, to help migrants have their way.
To see our children, born and bred, washed on the beach of life,
While liars cheat the system, causing anguish rage and strife.
Pretending to be persecuted, running for their lives,
Then bringing children, uncles, aunts, and mums and dads, and wives.
Why are the British suffering?  Why cosset those that roam?
I’ll tell you this my foreign friend, my charity starts at home?

Dan Lake





Charlie Dikinzwritten in the vernacular of the time/ interpretation below

Dere’sa noo kid moovd in dahn ayu streat, yoo sin im, e narf posh?
gosa skoow anevryfin an as a reglu wosh.
We cawl im Charli buht e say’s ees Charles, downt ya no,
mi mum cawls im lawdy snot a reglu so an so.

Is dad werks inna dockyard an ees got a speshuw job,
e wea’s a wach n chain so ee’s ernin a few bob,
deh sa day cums frum Pawtsmuf dey musta ad an ike
me dad say’s itz like Chatam fool a sailers whores an like

But ee’s a funni litoow chap an ee’s foow of littew yarns,
sez e gows aht wiv is dad an wawks aran d tarns.
Can yu majin wawkin, me mum says it carnt be reew,
an a ass e’s gunna by wen e gro’s up it’s at Gadd’s iw

Sez ee’s sin it, wiv is dad wun day, it’s aht d bak of Strood,
Ole Sli Kait say’s she’s sin it but shee’s awfuw bludy lewd,
she say’s is dad gows up er plaice too vizit  er at nite,
But my dad say’s e aint dat brave, eed taik off wiv a frite.

Didja eer abhat dat kid, dey’v got us reely beet,
deyve left da Brook wea we liv, an moved up to Ordnance Street.
Lawdy snot’s moovd up da ill, nah dey look dahn on us
wea bettu off wivaht em cos dey awlways maid a fuss.

Many yeers ave past nah an Ime nineteen wiv too kids,
but too dide at birf by Alfy, de uvers are Jake d yids.
I wish’d I’d marrid Charli cos ee’s gon an got reel fame,
Ees ritein in d paipu and Ee’s synin is reaw naim..


There’s a new kid moved in down our Street, you seen him he’s so posh?
goes to school and everything and has a regular wash.
We call him Charlie but he say’s he’s Charles don’t you know,
my mum calls him lordy snot, a regular so and so.

His dad works in the Dockyard and he’s got a special job,
he wears a watch and chain so he’s earning a few bob.
They say he comes from Portsmouth, they must have had a hike,
my dad say’s its just like Chatham full of sailors whores and like.

But he’s a funny little chap and he’s full of little yarns,
say’s he goes out with his Dad and walks around the Towns.
Can you imagine just walking, my mum say’s it cant be real,
and house he’s going to buy when he grows up, at Gadds Hill.

Say’s he’s seen it with his Dad one day, it’s out the back of Strood,
old Sly Kate say’s she’s seen it but she’s awful bloody lewd.
She say’s his Dad goes up to her place to visit her at night,
but my Dad say’s he’s not that brave, he’d take off with a fright.

Did you hear about that kid, they’ve got us really beat,
they’ve left the Brook where we live, and moved up to Ordnance Street.
Lordy Snot’s moved up the hill, now they look down on us,
We’re better off without them because they always made a fuss.

Many years have passed now and I’m nineteen with two kids,
but two died at birth by Alfie, and the others are Jake the Yids.
I wish I’d married Charlie because he’s gone and got real fame,
he’s writing in posh paper’s and he’s signing his real name.

Daniel Lake




Condemned to History (A Woody Guthrie style song)

Picking snow in Alabama just a kid of seventeen,
When the boss-man told me there would be no pay.
He said lazy scrounging workers
moonshine drinkers coal faced shirkers
were the reason the recession bit today.

I said goodbye to momma in this land of evergreen,
And headed outta town to find a job,
But some fairy mouthed smooth talker
Made me out a six gun stalker
And found a small town store that we could rob.

Momma find me neath the tree where they hanged me,
You told me Ma to never do no wrong.
Now I’m just a worn out verse in this callous universe
Condemned to history in this hapless song.

The hobo said that we could get a dollar bill or more
And gave a gun to me just to be sure,
But the store-boss saw us comin
Country bumkins railroad bummin
And shot my friend before we made the door.

Momma find me neath the tree where they hanged me,
You told me Ma to never do no wrong.
Now I’m just a worn out verse in this callous universe
Condemned to history in this hapless song.

They put me in a ball and chain and dragged me fore the Judge
He said “boy” your a hapless waste of time.
Take him down and hang him high
Pray to god and heaven on high
For his soul and for his wasted life in crime.

Momma find me neath the tree where they hanged me,
You told me Ma to never do no wrong.
Now I’m just a worn out verse in this callous universe
Condemned to history in this hapless song.

Now I lay here neath this tree and think of things I never done,
I never wore fine shoes or kissed a gal,
Spent my life just picking cotton
Feeding pigs with something rotten
With a stranger that had somehow been my pal.

Momma find me neath the tree where they hanged me,
You told me Ma to never do no wrong.
Now I’m just a worn out verse in this callous universe
Condemned to history in this hapless song.

Dan Lake




He’s Not The One For You

I saw you in the bar
I saw you dance all night
I saw you kiss his lips
I saw you hold him tight
To him you’re just a pal
A lonely kinda gal
He’s not the one for you

When you were playing pool
He took you for a fool
He’s no respect for you
It makes me feel so blue
Each night I stand and cry
Each night I wanna die
He’s not the one for you.

I see you smile, your face is all a glow,
Your eye’s light up my darkened heart
But you cant see, that light inside of me,
A light, that’s been there from the start.

He’s got just what it takes
To make a girl feel good
I stand here at the bar
I’m just a piece of wood
An Indian totem pole
But you are in my soul
He’s not the one for you.


Last verse

Dan Lake




His Beautiful Princess

He watched, eyes staring downwards
In the warmly lit bedroom,
And saw the passions played below
Between the bride and groom,
Their eagerness to please and sate
Their own beguiled express
Was tempered just enough to hide
Behind the tenderness.

He’d seen this play a thousand times,
She acted so serene,
But needed him to open doors
To places dark, obscene.
He laughed a silent salience
He’d seen it all before
The trousers, dress and stockings
All bedecked upon the floor.

He tired of all the dalliance
He wanted love, noblesse,
A hundred years he’d waited,
Just to see his real princess,
And though his eyes were open
He was wakened from his gloom:
As his vision of pure loveliness
Appeared into his room.

His wooden heart appeared to move
He had no breath to hold,
His countenance was ugly and
His gesso’d face was gold,
But when she glanced upon him
She at once began to smile,
A warmness that began to melt
This half man half reptile.

She stood before him innocent
He wanted to possess,
Nubile, soft and graceful
She disrobed with soft finesse.
But he’s a carving on the bed,
He’s made from ancient oak
And though his wings reached out for her
He’s shackled to his yoke.

With beauty in her nakedness
She smiled a warm embrace,
Revealing tears upon his cheeks
She touched his aged face,
His cold heart warmed and almost beat
A state of acquiesce,
That night he slept with love erstwhile
His beautiful princess…

Dan Lake





The man shouted out ”RocknRoll”
As he fingered his bottle guitar,
He was trying to inject some soul
In the downtown dirty old bar.
But the few who were drinking from bottles,
In the corners of this seedy room,
Had no time for girding their wattles
And singing aloud through the gloom.

I remember thinking he’s wasted,
Among those who frequented here,
They were dead from the neck as they tasted,
The bitterness of their warm beer.
When the door opened up and he entered,
With an entourage that must have come far,
And he jumped on the stage so self centred,
And waved to the dead in the bar.

His rosette was red on his jacket,
And he reached for the blues singers mike,
But the dead fast awoke with a racket
And was boo’d and told “go take a hike”
But he smiled that smile we are used to,
and started to preach and enrage,
When a burley young punk who was quite clearly drunk
Threw our leader head first from the stage.

The moral of this sorry story,
Is if your politically bent,
Is to waffle of labour or tory,
On the doorsteps of Guilford or Ghent…

Dan Lake




The Abyss

They walked as they had done before, those cliffs of pure delight,
Hand in hand they’d strolled among the moon and stars at night,
Secure in their own company so safe within their world
She never saw the thief approach or what could have unfurled.

The night she slipped from loves embrace his heart recoiled in fear,
The danger far below evoked a feeling so severe.
Startled by a plagiarist, confronted by alarm,
While stumbling back in disbelief her lover grasped her arm.

She fell, he held her perilous, he feared the rocks below,
He cried please take my hand my love, grasping from his plateau,
She swung below in the abyss, he feared his love was gone
And as the footpad slipped away he parlously held on.

She feared that he would also fall, she begged him to let go,
With tears that fell on her sweet face he angrily said “no,”
“My love I’ll never let you go,” Now grasp my other hand,”
“Before we both fall on the rocks and spill blood on the sand.”

She reached with trepidation and she grasped his outstretched palm,
She felt the strength she’d known before start hauling her from harm,
Determined now to rid herself of terrors in her chest,
He hauled her from the chasm to the safety of the crest.

The moon and stars still glittered as they held each so secure,
They knew now there was nothing in this world they can’t endure.
They kissed their tears from weeping eyes and pledged the lord above,
That nothing earthly could divide their loyalty and love.

And one day in their dotage they will share this memory,
That gave them strength to life itself until eternity…

Dan Lake





Dan’s contribution – 21st October 2009


Would you like to travel,
To place that’s called Safune,
On a yacht across the ocean,
On one cool afternoon.
Our reason to be sailing is
Of course our honeymoon,
I’d strum guitar, soft melody
And look at you and croon.
We’d dance and laugh as lovers do
And play our favourite tune,
Listening to the radio
For our signatune.
No-one would tear me from your eyes,
Not even lusty Sune
And when we anchored for the night
Beneath the pale blue-moon,
While the breeze that carried fragrance,
From a million coloured blooms,
Out across the water
Of a small and warm lagoon,
I’d take you in my arms,
To our dimly lit bedroom
And while the ship rocked softly,
Neath the bright full silver Moon,
We’d lay upon a bed of silk and
Gently bill and spoon.
Unable to control ourselves
We’d climax oh to soon,
Ecstatic high’s would melt us
Into heavenly soft swoons
Then I would lie beside you,
A bride and her bridegroom…..

Dan Lake



Kiss The Morning

Kiss the morning on your lips,
Caress the warm breeze on your face.
See the blackbird as he sips,
The water that’s mans saving grace.
The bounty in the fields for you
All glistening in the morning dew.

How blest we are to have this life.
Blessed is this bounteous land.
With all its hardships and its strife,
Provided by our lords own hand.
Give me grace to seize this time
And live this moment so sublime.

Dan Lake



My Garden (about a very old lady friend)

Here are all the flowers in my garden,
The roses and the violets so sweet,
Bluebells and the marigolds
Daffodils of yellow and gold’s
The softness of the grass beneath my feet.

I sit here for hours in my garden,
A sanctuary from this troubled world,
The birds would sing there songs for me,
My flowers there for all to see
A panoramic view that I’d unfurled.

I’d try and take my friends to see my garden,
But they would only talk about their own,
Take cuttings, trimming hedges,
Laying footpaths, hanging sledges
And dogs that chase the cats who love to roam.

Each day I see the flowers in my garden,
Every day, of every year I’m here,
I tell the staff what’s blooming there
Though I don’t think they really care,
But I can see the snowdrops just appear.

I sit here as I think about my garden,
In my little room with all I need,
A television, radio, even rooms where I can go
To sit with friends to drink a cup of tea.

But I can still remember my sweet garden,
A lovely place where I can often go,
Its locked up in my memory
A place that only I can see
My garden in my mind that I love so…..

Dan Lake



My Lady Of Grace

From the pool of devotion came long golden hair
Slowly to rise from the brine,
A face of an angel transfixed me to stare
Into eyes that I wanted for mine…

She rose as a goddess from out of the blue,
Slowly and proudly with grace,
Her nakedness thrilled me though she was unreal
But I felt her as she touched my face….

She smiled and reached out a welcoming hand,
Gold bangles that shone from her arm,
This apparition had taken my mind
But I was astoundingly calm….

A whisper, a whisper repeating my name,
Please come and join me my love.
Kiss me and touch me for I am aflame,
Those words on the wings of a dove…

I reached for my Angel my heart was undone
I touched the tip of her hand,
Come with me she pleaded this night is ere long,
So I walked from the soft golden sand….

I took my young maid as we sank in the pool,
Locked in a lovers embrace,
To spend an eternity down in the depths
Of love, with my lady of Grace……….

Dan Lake


Old Love

Where can my heart be in winter?
Where can my love be in fall?
Seasons may come and seasons may go
But desire will conquer them all.

What age will our passions extinguish?
Where my inamoratos is lost,
Is adoration a thing for the young?
Is somebody counting the cost?

My season for love is the autumn,
Your season for love may be spring,
A summer of love is a perfect time,
As lovers we do our own thing.

As a lover am I any different,
From young loves who walk and adore,
Is my love less sweet to the poet?
Who writes about seizing amour?

The old man who still has a twinkle
As he kisses his lady of years,
When they sit on the porch in their twilight,
While she still wipes away the odd tears.

How sweet is the sun in the morning?
On the orchards that bear their fruitage
Has “immortal” not got its own beauty?
That infinite lover of age….

Dan Lake


Romancing the Metaphor…

I bathe in the mild winds of autumn
And I feel the warm sun on my skin.
I love the soft touch of it’s fingers
As it stir’s those emotions within.
It caresses my lips with it’s passions
And dwells on my eyelids so sweet,
While the sun and the wind warm my body
Gently kissing right down to my feet.

Oh, how glad I am that I found you
And the joy that I get when we meet…

Dan Lake


Sands of time

I look upon your beauteous face,
Heart leaping, smell your hair,
Your eyes are closed but do you sleep
Is anybody there.
I trace the outline of your lips
And feel the need to touch,
Your gentle rhythmic breathing
Brings the need to kiss, too much.

Lying on your back,
Your breast’s slowly rise and fall,
A tear runs slowly down my cheek,
I want to quietly call,
Your name my dearest darling
I mouth it to the moon,
This moment that will quickly go,
A moment passed too soon.

I can’t stand the moment longer
And I reach with trembling hand,
To touch this vision of beauty
That lies here on the sand.
A paradise on paradise
A memory loud and clear,
But lying in the sands of time
I know that your not here.

Come back my love, my everything,
Come back across the time,
Transcend this open spaciousness,
Come back and just be mine.
Take this knife from out my heart
Replace this pain with bliss,
Walk with me, on this beach again;
To give me one last kiss…

Dan Lake



Silver Moonbeams

I’ve no idea what woke me,
Nor do I really care,
But there were silver moonbeams
That were playing in your hair.
So tangible, I touched them
As they softly passed my eyes,
And instantly I felt this passion
Coming from the skies.

You stirred, I saw your silent breath
Drink from this silver wine,
Highlighting you, it made you glow,
(I held your hand in mine.)
Afraid to breathe lest I should wake
This vision framed for me,
By Gods that knew my love for you,
Eternal, profound, free.

I saw your rhythmic breathing,
Your breast would fall then rise,
And watched this gentle rapture
Held spellbound, before my eyes.
I kissed your fingertips so warm
In magic beams from space,
And saw the quiet peacefulness
That came from your sweet face.

A silent tear ran down my cheek
And fell on your soft lip,
The tongue that tasted my hearts wine
Awakes, to gently sip.
Your arms enfolds my body
In this light from high above,
Then gently pull me to you
Bathing in this glow of love….

Dan Lake


September 10th 2009

God, Mr. Brown and Father Christmas

“Dear God”, why can’t my Daddy come home this Christmas time
He went away to help some men at war
He’s big and strong and warm and cuddly and we love him so
He left us waving, tearful at our door

We watched him drive away dear God and mummy cried a lot
But me and Tommy told her don’t be sad
But inside I am crying too cause I can’t understand
Why anyone would want to kill my dad….

“Mr Brown”, I’m just a little girl who’s so confused
You sent our Daddy oh so far away
To fight for all the people in our country everywhere
But Daddy won’t be home on Christmas day…

All the children in our street have daddies home with them
Why don’t others go away and try
To stop the nasty people of this world from doing wrong
Why is it only us who sit and cry…?

“Father Christmas”, all I want is Daddy back again
Tommy Me and Mummy feel so low
Grandma tells me Daddy’s gone to Heaven and it’s nice
That may be, but we all miss him so…

Please bring him home for Christmas; I will try to be good
Heaven can’t be all it’s meant to be;
Please put him by the fire so that when I go to sleep,
I’ll know that Daddies waiting there for me….

Dan Lake



God’s On Our Side….

King Billy’s boys are marching in the village and the town,
We hate the Papal Bastards and we’re loyal to the Crown,
We’re proud and peaceful people and we wear our Sash with pride.
Our Father’s, Father’s, Father’s, Sash
And God is on our side.

We march behind the boy’s and girl’s dressed up in gold and green,
The pipe and drum bands playing, the Tricolour can be seen,
We’ll beat the British bastards, and we’re prepared to die,
For our Father’s, Father’s, Father’s, said.
That God is on our side.

Armistice Day, The Cenotaph , suits and medals on display,
Our thoughts with friends and family’s, from war’s so far away.
Then thunder cracked and time stood still and loved one’s couldn’t hide,
I held my daughters quietened hand,
But is God is on our side?

Tears were at the graveside as we buried our dear friend,
what a shame that such a man should come to such an end.
Grenades blew up the gravestones and more of “our kind” died,
Why are we persecuted?
When God is on our side.

Atrocious crimes committed on “Our” streets for All to see.
The Worlds aghast at how we act, but fault can’t lie with me.
The blame lies with “the others” how they talk with pompous pride,
But we shall win I’m sure of it,
God is on our side

What can you do with children when you’ve taught them “who” to hate,
What can you do when bombs and guns control your streets of fate.
Where barricades are burning and mothers children die.
Console yourself my Irish friend,
Cause God is on your side.

When you can make your peace and bring your troubles to an end,
Self righteousness and bigotry are gone and you amend,
And you can shake an Irish hand, and know you’ve truly tried.
At last the soul of Ireland will have God on its side…

Dan Lake



Who Set These Souls Above Us?. . . .

I could have been Geoff Hurst back in 1966,
Taking a long ball from Bobby Moore.
Wembley was the venue, and it’s all over now,
We were the champs who cared about the score.

I could have been the soldier, Private A.H. Hook,
Fighting for his life at Rorke’s Drift Corral.
Winning his VC, with many other men,
A battle that we know was bloody hell.

I could have been William Wordsworth, a poet of some note,
Who took to field and hill to find his way.
Buried in St Oswald’s Church in Grasmere by the Lake,
Died 1850, on St Georges Day.

I could have been Sir Frances Drake who skippered the Golden Hind
Who sailed around the world on unknown sea
He stole the Spanish gold and gave it to his Queen
Died on the Spanish Maine of dysentery.

I could have been our Jimmy Page who played with Robert Plant
Who sang and cooed to fans like a Rock Dove.
Led Zeppelin was the band, and Jimmy played up front,
Beating out the song “Whole Lotta Love”.

I could have been Sir Gordon Richards, jockey of his day,
Riding his last Derby, near his end.
1953, and he’d never won that race,
Gordon won on Pinza, the Peoples Friend.

I could have been Johnny Wilkinson in two thousand and three,
Sydney and Australia were the hosts,
Matt Dawson won the ball and Johnson took it on,
And Johnny put the ball between the posts.

I could have been Wilfred Owen, war poet of his time,
Dulce et Decorum Est, my friend.
7 days before war’s end, on the Sambre Oise Canal,
“It is Sweet and Right”, he met his end.

I could have been Donald Cambell, in 1967
300 miles per hour he was so brave,
Bluebird lifted upwards on his second and last run,
Coniston Water became Donald’s grave.

I could have been Roger Bannister in 1954
Young men who were so fit and agile
Chris Brasher and Chataway, ran with him on that day
And helped him break that elusive four minute mile

I could have been Edmund Hillary in 1953,
Going where no man had trod but then,
With Norgay Tenzing by his side they conquered Everest,
Truly these were very special men.

I could have been Lance Sergeant, Joseph E Malone,
In 1854 with Lord Cardigan.
600 horses charged that day, headlong into hell,
And Joseph won the VC, him alone.

I could have been young Captain Scott, who led that band of men,
The freezing South Pole’s where they came to rest.
With Evans, Wilson, and Captain Oates they died in bighting snow
Four heroes who attempted that fate-full quest.

I could have been Marlon Brando, down on “The Waterfront”,
Pleading that he could have been someone.
Instead he’d taken dives to satisfy the mob,
Regaining pride where once he felt a bum.

All these men and many more, have played their part with me,
I’d read the books and watched the silver screen.
Men who’d died believing, and men who’d lived their lives,
To gain the highest accolade that’s been.

I was there beside them as they sacrificed their all,
Climbed to highest stardom as they can.
What sets these souls above us as they play their finest hour
To live immortal, heroes all……….. A man..

Dan Lake


Little Baby P

Little baby P I think mankind has reach a low.
I plead with your sweet spirit so that hopefully you’ll know,
I bleed for your young tortured body, ashamed that I’m a man.
That other men could do to you, as your protector’s can….

I see you as my own grandchild, your lovely golden hair,
helpless, learning, needing love to point you to the stair,
to climb life’s grand adventure, with warnings what to do,
with gentle love and kisses, from mum and daddy too….

“What God decided” that you’d be treated as you were?
Will your mother say that life’s so bad, and was for her
a no chance situation, and she’d had no time to be
the loving mum you needed, the love you’d get from me…

I wonder at mankind at his flippant need to cast
aside the need’s to answer, get to the truth at last.
With all the wringing hands from these agency’s today,
who tell us that their wonderful and no –one is to pay…

Your broken little body that lies on a cold stone,
instead of a warm bed, in a loving caring home.
I despair for all mankind, when some think that life is worth,
more to a wild fox, than to a child of this earth……..

Dan Lake………




Moby Dick

He was the boot-room big boy
His name was Moby Dick
He waved and swung with his two friends
The ball boy’s Flonk and Flick
As a team they stood above
Those lesser boot boy swingers
Whose only friends were keen to grasp
With boyish hands and fingers

The lads Flonk Flick with Moby
Sought ladies far and near
While lesser teams sought magazines
From top shelves and would leer
The pictures from the pages
Would make them gasp and froth
And stick the books together
All ending with a cough

Flonk and Flick with Moby
Saw a lady they must win
And rose to the occasion
As she warmly took them in
Moby thrashed in warm and wet
With Flonk and Flick outside
They done there best to get in too
But Moby was too wide.

He pushed his head and shoulders
Where lesser boys can’t go
He plunged to depths beyond the norm
He humped it high and low
Then after he had sent his seeds
While in his fever pitch
Moby, Flick and Flonk felt strange,
“It started with an itch”…

Now these three randy boot boys
Were feeling when they’d pass
In toilets, or where-ever, that
They’d peed through broken glass
So one day they found cold hands
And were handled with distain
Then given penicillin
And told “don’t come back again”

Now back in the boot room
They no longer strut their stuff
And show off to the lesser boys
“Their feeling mighty rough”
The moral of this story
Is when swimming in the pool
Always wear your water-wings;
Don’t trust your silly tool……………

Dan Lake . . . . .



A Colourful Christmas

My father was an Orangeman my Grandfather was Green,
The colours in my family were there but rarely seen,
The Irish side took care of things with drinking and the craic,
But colours still came into it ma’s maiden name was “Black”.

My brother took to politics becoming a true blue,
He’d go out cold canvassing and might have called on you.
But Cousins Norm and Phil pursued a very different stead
They followed Leftist Labour, and became, “simply red”.

At a Christmas gathering, we’d have a couple of beers,
The Pink side of my family would arrive with friendly queers,
And by the time the brandy and the wine was all but sunk
The Orange Green the Blacks and Pinks and Reds and Blue were drunk.

The moral of the story, is there for all to see,
Don’t bang your drum at Christmas time, chill out, let bygones be.
There’s time’s to wave your colours, and time to fold away ,
So never nail your colours to the mast on Christmas day…………

Dan Lake




A Glow From My Angel

I was wrapped in a blanket of darkness
On a beautiful evening in June
The stars reached out and touched me
As I bathed in the light from the moon
A nightingale sang oh so lonely
As he searched for his love far away
This was the one perfect evening
As I pondered my one perfect day

The glow-worms lit by my footpath
As I carefully made my way home
My thoughts turned to us as I wandered
When we’d talked arm in arm as we roamed
The owl broke my dream as it hooted
I looked at the heavenly sky
Then was kissed by a glow from my Angel
As she went on her way bye and bye

Dan Lake




Contemplating Resistance

I used to lie in green fields chewing on the hay
Contemplate tomorrows, show concerns for yesterday
A buxom beauty by my side
To flirt and gently kiss
I never thought there’d be a day I’d miss the such as this……

Nowt to do but fill my head of thought’s of carnal kind
Pretending to my darling there was nothing on my mind
Persistence proving futile
Resistance was to strong
These light hearted sparring rounds would go on all day long…….

I don’t know how I managed it for one day she said yes
She let me put my hand on that place beneath her dress
She squirmed and she wriggled
I pretended that I knew
What it was that I’d looked for and just what I’m to do……?

I was quite unlucky, along came my old mate
Then as we quickly rearranged, he sat upon the gate
Observing the grand magnitude
With nothing much to say
Ruining weeks of wishful thoughts he’d buggered up my day…..

Worse was to befall me when I planned my next campaign
I tapped her door; her mother said “why lad she’s out again”
“She’s off and out a walking”
“With that lad you call your friend”
And if that wasn’t bad enough she added, “It’s the end”………..

“There away to see the priest who will poster up the bands”
“Announce to all and sundry far away across the lands”
“A weddings in the offing”
“Expect it any day”
“And if you didn’t know my lad, she’s in the family way”……….

No more will I sit and pretend to contemplate
I’ll get right down to business far away from field and gate
Persistence is a virtue
And anything I’ll say
If I want a buxom girl and have my wicked way……………….

Dan Lake




A September Morn

“September morn”, a lovely song sang by a balladeer,
Reflects my thought this morning, and my heart is in good cheer.
The air is fresh and crisp, as the frost melts on the grass,
The gentle sun brings warmth and life to all who care to pass.
The leaves as if by magic turn a thousand shades of reds,
Late blossoms huddle closely in their chilly flower beds,
While buzzards search for thermals to carry them on high,
And silver birds leave vapour trails, to scar the clear blue sky.

The Yew tree starts to bear its fruit of berries firm and red,
While Mistle Thrushes eat their fill as though they‘d ne’re been fed.
Squirrels in the Walnut trees, gather their bounty in,
And blackthorns bears the sloe that waits for man to mix with Gin.
The last of towering hops are picked to make the seasons beer,
So man may raise a glass to man, and wish him Christmas cheer.
As the cycle goes the heat of summer drifts away,
And leaves a glorious scene for all to see this autumn day….

Dan Lake



Dear Mother

For twenty years or more now I’ve been looking at this stone,
Weather-beaten, worn, and turning green.
I’ve washed it, planted flowers that have eventually grown,
Trimmed the grass and cleared up all I’ve seen.
But I’d give everything dear mother to have you back again,
And I’d never nag again about the time,
Your smoking finally took you and left me in such pain,
I was proud to call you mother, you were mine.

I’ve stumbled through this lifetime, of more than sixty years
Admit it Mum I’ve acted like a kid,
Crisis upon crisis was your legacy of tears,
It’s a shame I sort of behaved like I did.
But you were there whatever, you helped me to feel free,
You tried to help me see the things I done,
But the saying about blindness, and those that just won’t see,
Was written for this man you call your son.

You knew that I was better than the gossip in the street,
You knew the boy, you knew the lad, the man.
You’d proudly introduce me to everyone you’d meet,
I’d hear you say this is my son my Dan.
He’s a little sod at times but he really loves his mum,
And I would colour up so bloody red,
I wish you’d introduce me once again your loving son,
Who’s still missing you, so much here in my head……………..

Dan Lake


Doug the Milkman

Over thirty years ago, a young man knocked my door,
And asked if he could bring the milk to me,
Ruddy faced and cheerful, he said his name was Doug
He said no charge was for delivery…

Well I said yes and shut the door, and waited for my wares,
And Doug turned up at six as years rolled past,
No matter what the weather, he was there with his milk float,
Never late with milk for our breakfast…

I was the only house along a half a mile lane,
It was just a dead end lonely country track,
But Doug would drive down to me, and leave his milk for us,
Two bottles, and then drive the whole way back…

I mentioned to my cheery chap my milk was getting warm,
One morning as he called to get his money,
He said that that’s no problem and to leave it up to him,
And later left, a real old chimney…

He’d put the milk inside, to keep it fairly chilled,
And in the winter it would never freeze,
Even on the worst of days, he’d have his cheery smile,
His customers were his alone to please…

Nowt was too much trouble for this ruddy faced milkman,
For thirty years two bottles every day.
One bad snowstorm caused him not to come along the lane,
But he left our milk at neighbours up the way..

One day I went to get the milk, it sat beside the chimney,
Not in the pot as Doug would always do.
Then every other day our milk had started to arrive,
Was this it? Our daily pint was through…

What was wrong with Doug we asked around the neighbourhood?
Where was our man who’d become part of us,
Who’d toiled for us daily for year upon long year,
Who’d brought our milk and never made a fuss…

When I met the new chap, again a pleasant man,
And asked with baited breath where was our friend,
He rustled in his bag for my small change, and said,
He’d had a heart attack, it was the end…

Doug had died, our milkman, he was almost family,
I watched the new chap walk away with dread,
Tears ran down my face as I choked and caught my breath,
And in my hand a note that simply said…

I’m sorry that my Doug can’t bring you milk today,
My children and myself will find it hard,
He loved his job and customers and was a caring man,
We’ll miss him, “Pat”, was written on the card…

You never know how much you miss those things, until their gone,
Those things’s we take for granted day by day,
A milkman or a partner, life goes on, it’s very sad.
We miss them, only when they’ve gone away…

Dan Lake



Edward John Albert’s War (My Dad)
I joined the Army in forty one, I had to do my bit
They trained and strained to make us hard and mean
Route marches here manoeuvres there to make us strong and fit
Yes sergeant, we’re part of this machine

In forty two I married Betty, the girl who stole my heart
We’d met, two years earlier at the hop.
When going back from leave, we couldn’t bear to part
But go I did but hoped this war would stop

In April forty four I’m told “well Edward you’re a Dad”
A bonny bouncing son of seven pounds
Take leave to see your wife and child “I’m sure you must be glad”
Forty eight hours of leave to do the rounds

I sit here in this landing craft and wonder what I’ve done
No longer sure of anything today
My rifle in my arms instead of Betty and my son
A tiny part of what is called D Day

I’m on the beach, I’m lucky, please spare me lord
Keep me safe and free from harm I pray
Death is all around me as the reaper swings his sword
Carnage reigns where children used to play

My role was in a half track attached to the Scots Grey’s
A tank battalion that formed at Pierre-Pont
Eleventh Armoured division is where I’d spend my days
The sky was our Cathedral, steel our font

Madness was our saviour fear our only friend
As action after action we’d sustain
Camilly, then Gavrus, to Putot-en-Bessin,
Where we fought and died in pouring rain

We cross the river Odon to Haut-du Bosq-Mouen
Every day a new fear to be faced
We’d watch our friends who’d die, and sweat and swear and moan
La Butte then to Falaise, on we raced

Young men’s haggard faces looked out with stolen eyes
Deprived of sleep and clean clothes we fought on
Montsroge, to Bonoeil, we laughed at all our lies
Afraid of showing fear, compassion gone

Hedgerow after village after hedgerow we crossed France
We crossed the River Seine to old Gormay,
September we’re in Walrus, then Brugge, to Beveren Waes,
The 13th, were in Brussels hip hooray

At night we drink our mugs of tea and sit and dream of home
Where we can walk in sunshine or in rain
Awoken from our thoughts by shellfire as we roamed
Could we go back, be normal, we’re insane!

The next day were at Dorne, then on to Oppoten,
We speed our way from Bree, to Lankleer,
We take the bridge at Weert, where we lose many friends
The fruits of our Great Britain buried here

Were moving on to Afferdon, and deprived of our sleep
Where every shadow seems to be a threat
The next day see us move again, the take over complete
And spend a quiet night in small Druet

Battalion moves through Nijmegan, to Grave, to Eindhoven,
The 18th of October were in Weelde,
The Church tower in Tourhout rings loudly as we govern
This old town square rejoices in it’s freedom

The 20th of October finds us sleeping in the rain
In woodland where the halftracks couldn’t go
When Patrick Dean was asked to take us on patrol again
To gather information from the foe

We set off in the dark and captured several men
We sent them to the rear then pressing on
The terrifying darkness saw us weak with fear again
Where every second seemed an hour long

A Spandau opened fire and I fell in shock and pain
Corporal Green shouts “Eddy are you sound”
He and Patrick Dean were wounded, they’d go home again
But me I’d end up buried in this ground

Men replaced the fallen and machine replaced machine,
Who’d replace me now that I was gone
Some other fresh faced youngster, who’s fit and strong and lean
This war conveyor ever going on

Burgen Op Zoom’s where I lay with many men who fell
Never to grow old or fade away
We gave our all that you may live, and hope that you might tell
Those things we done for you, long yesterday

Think of us from time to time, don’t dwell or linger on
But wonder when our generations past
We had no choice of what to do or what was
right or wrong
As years fade into sunsets… Peace at last…..

Dan Lake


Greying hair

How silly can an old man be who writes with greying hair.
A pink patch on my head to see, and nasal hair to spare.
What happens twixt that time in life where functions are full bore,
When a smile got an erection, but now bending downs a chore.

I try to say the cool things but then grandkids laugh out loud.
I’m called to boot by young men, when once I was tall and proud.
I’m nothing more than someone who now takes a vacant chair,
Who has to think a second fore he walks out on the stair.

The mirror and the seasons tell the truth just who I am,
I’m no longer Jack the Lad, or a Rolling Stone young fan.
I try to see young logic but I haven’t got a clue,
The madness of a daft old man who’s so in love with you…….

Dan Lake


Hello Mrs Frost

Hello Mrs Frost, Mum said how are you today,
I’m going to the shop and she said while I’m on my way,
Just to tap your door and ask, there’s anything you’d like,
It’s really little trouble ’cause I’m going on my bike..

Hello Mrs Frost, you’ll never guess what’s just occurred,
Mrs Blundell’s passed away and Mum said have you heard,
I know she was a gooden and she always gave a sweet
To all the kids who’d run an errand for her in the street.

Hello Mrs Frost we’ve come to plant your spuds,
Dad said to do a good job or he’d clip us round the lug,
Gotta tell you Mrs Frost, those cakes smell awful nice,
We’ll have these rows of taters planted neatly in a thrice.

Hello Mrs Frost, the horses dropped this lot,
Mum said to shovel it all up and spread it round your plot,
To help those taters grow, and to put some round your vine,
Dad laughed and said please don’t forget his odd bottle of wine.

“Hello” Mrs Frost! Can you hear, its Danny Lake,
Mums sent me back to thank you for that lovely cherry cake.
“Oh” Mrs Frost I wish I hadn’t opened your back door,
To find you in the kitchen, lying poorly on the floor.

Mrs Doggett, Mrs Blundell, and old Miss Malaine,
I see you in the churchyard now at peace and free from pain,
And wonder as you lie there if you think of times of yore,
As I do now of all us kids, who knocked at your front door…

Dan Lake


In These Fields of Passchendaele

In these fields of Passchendaele skylarks sing and cattle graze,
On these fields of Passchendaele, where lives were lost in far off days.
There’s no hint of what went on here, no sign of blood and bones,
But sixty thousand souls lie here, beneath the white headstones,
On these fields of Passchendaele, where graze the silent sheep.
The only sound is wailing wind, the mothers who still weep,
On these fields of Passchendaele…..

On these fields of Passchendaele, lions bent against the fire,
Of lead and splinters like the rain, and torn with bloody wire,
They prayed to God almighty, that this day they might get through,
But Gods not listening Tommy son, he hasn’t time for you,
On these fields of Passchendaele, where donkey’s planned their war,
Far from the filthy trenches, they were spared what lion’s saw,
On these fields of Passchendaele…

On these fields of Passchendaele, I stand without a clue,
Of what you poor men suffered, and what you had to do.
But I can feel the pain as this vice within my chest,
Crushes breath within me, till tears run down my face
For men who died so bloodily, from gas or lead and shell,
Who drowned in blood and mud, in this place of utter hell.
In these fields of Passchendaele….

Dan Lake  



An Ode to Neil Kinnock

Now here is the story of Neil, a homespun Welsh born Man,
Who escaped from the valley’s of Tredgar, where for him his story began.
Now Neil’s dad was a labourer, his mum a hard working nurse,
And Neil it seems had other grand dreams to add to the family purse.

He went to school in Pengham, then, University education,
Where he got his degree on his second attempt, in history and Industrial relations.
A postgraduate one year later, a diploma in education,
He worked for four years as a tutor, for a workers Association.

From the (WEA) nominations, for the constituency, Bedwellty, Wales.
He won his way into politics, and out of the coal mining Dales.
Here was a man of “principal?”, a man of “democracy?”
He argued against devolution, and a Welsh identity.

Neil’s party was in opposition and he took a cabinet offer,
And Neil gained “fame” on the left winger train where he thought that his future would proffer.
Neil argued the Falklands War, was a waste of manpower and money,
He’d argued against, his own Welsh defence and the Falklands had no milk and honey.

In nineteen eighty three, he became his party’s new leader,
He, discovered a cleft in the old labour left and became the old lefts impleader.

Now the lad from the coalmining valley’s and Arthur Scargill “King Coal,”
Argued the point about protest, where promises led to the dole.
Now Neil’s politics moved sideway’s, no longer the scourge of the right,
Liverpool bashing and Old Labour thrashing, “Was the end of extremists in sight?”

Peter Mandleson crept on the scene, Neil’s “communications” expert
And adopted the rose with an EU pose, but the Old Labour Left were still hurt.
They grumbled and moaned in the wings and challenged our Neil for his throne,
While Maggie just smiled, she’d be here for a while, for Labour was fighting it’s “own”.

Now Maggie’s Achilles Heel, became the reviled Poll Tax.
Neil sensed victory in the coming melee, but the Tories just wouldn’t relax.
They outed their tough old bird, with a firmly placed stab in the back
And with John Major’s rise, became poor Neil’s demise, Labours “hawks” made a speedy impact.

While the “Sun” ran a famous front page, Neil struggled for some form of light,
Their headline it read that Britain was dead “ the last leaver should turn out the light.”
Neil Kinnock expected the loss, For he was a flexible chap,
He arrived on chat shows, personality grows, then a job for life lands in his lap.

He’s appointed Transport Commissar, on the EU Council no less,
But obliged to resign for the whole grand design was corrupt, and a fine bloody mess.
What! Neil’s re-appointed you laugh, Vice President of the “Shabang.”
While his wife and his son just to get the work done, were helping our Neil and his gang.

Neil’s now heads the British Council, in February two thousand and four.
And becomes a peer, it seems awfully queer he refused the Lords chambers before.
Yes in nineteen seventy seven, he had sat with a friend in the gloom,
Both sat with each and refused the queen’s speech, refusing ,to enter the Lords room.

Neil is now wearing Ermine and his pockets are chinking with gold,
The whole family are resplendent you see. “As poor old England is sold.”
Was Neil, a great politician? Has he served his country so well?
To become a “Life Star”, this lad from Tredgar has become “Baron Kinnock” of Bedwell-ty.

Glenys and Neil have both made it, his son is now making his path.
Named as Dan Dire: the hapless space flyer, Neil Kinnock has had the last laugh.
But what’s to be made of this story, a message is here for the young,
This son of a miner can hail an “Air Liner,” for him there’ll be no miners lung.

So take off your hoods and stop whining, get into politics honey,
Our boy from Tredgar who has travelled so far is rolling in power and money.
What then became the “New Labour,” after our Neil was fired,
They rose quite elated then slowly deflated. And now lie defunct spent and tired…

Dan Lake


A few new additions added on 30th August 2009 because there is no stopping the man. . . . . . . J.C.

Barry’s Day Out Fishing (truish story)

Barry’s never fished for years,
From days when he was young,
When fishing in those far off days
Was simply childish fun.
He loved the invitation,
This chance that he would take,
To wet his lines and have some fun
“And relax by the Lake.”

We set off bright and early,
Expectancy was high,
The weather’s fine, the sun peered low
Beneath a clouded sky.
We chatted as we drove along
As men do, on our way,
Of family’s and cars and things,
In general work and play.

We wheeled our trolleys loaded high
With everything we’d need,
From rods and reels to landing net’s,
Alarms and fishes feeds,
To spots we’d preselected,
Prime sites we’d fished before,
Anticipating things to come
We’d have fish by the score.

Now Mick and Me were quick to set
Our tackle to it’s role,
But Barry with his brand new kit
Was struggling to this goal.
I helped our wayward invitee,
Achieving dreams at last,
And stood back feeling kinda proud
To see him stand and cast.

Barry stood determined
He took a casting stance
His features set, his muscles flexed,
Those fishes stood no chance.
He cast towards the island,
Some fifty feet away
And where his hook and weight was thrown
We’re still looking today.

His baited line flew skywards
Over Isle and trees,
His strong line wrecking all it touched
Stripping all the leaves.
The birds that nested quietly
Were startled from their sleep
And branches fell so noisily
From Willow tree’s that weep.

The silence of the tranquil scene,
Was shattered by our laugh
And Barry peered into the sky,
To see his tackles path.
With tears that rolled with laughter
We set him up again,
To see him cast another bomb
And saw the very same.

The fauna flew in horror,
The flora was destroyed,
As Barry cast and cast again
More weights again deployed.
The scene was one of chaos,
The quiet was undone
The tree’s were stripped and broken
As this place looked like the Somme.

Mick and I grinned nervously
And cowered fearing pain,
As lead-shot thundered everywhere
And threatened our domain.
Our hopes were that eventually
He’d run out of missiles,
Then let us settle down in peace
And quiet for a while.

Eventually he settled,
Amid his carnage’d ground,
The air was filled with fishing lines,
In tree’s his hooks we found.
In time we raised his reel
While using a big rake,
Like so much of Barry’s gear
That lay within the lake.

Somehow the song “Gone Fishing”
Sang by old Bob and Bing,
Took on a different meaning,
A very different theme.
And though we quietened down to fish
When Barry stood to cast,
We couldn’t help but glance sideways,
As hook and float sailed past.

That day I will remember,
Imprinted in my mind,
The picture of destruction
Was of the Beirut kind.
Then smiling he asked me,
While sitting in the rain,
“Thanks for bringing me today”
“And can I come again.”

Dan Lake




Another Amputee.

God bless you Harry Patch and Henry A, your time has come,
You war horses, you veterans of Jutland and the Somme.
Your names are carved in history books, you’ve represented all,
Those countless, ghostly faces, who marched with you in Whitehall.

I see your cortege passing, many faces wiping tears
And understand your efforts, that you’ve made over the years.
To tell all that would listen, of the horrors of your war,
Of what your generation did, and what you brave men saw.

I’ve seen the sheer frustration in your faces as you’ve said,
There’s no “Glory on the battlefield”, there’s only countless dead.
Young boys of crying mothers young husbands of young brides,
Young hopes and aspirations washed away on countless tides.

That wasted and lost coevals, what did they all die for?
“Not so their eyes might see again this Country go to war,”
Not so those few survivors might “send their sons again,”
To fight once more in Picardy and towns of foreign names.

The sirens wail again, another plague had gripped the world,
A bloody festering boil had burst, a hatred had unfurled.
Would this go on forever, this pestilence of men,
Was this the legacy of man to die and die again.

Another war had ended, another call to arms,
Another politician calling young men from their farms
Another faceless bureaucrat controlling what we spend
And as we fight the “enemy”, he’ll fight us with his pen.

Brize Norton mourns another soul, another young man’s life,
Another conflict far away. “A necessary strife.”
Another suit, another face, another pudgy hand,
Who’ll send us to our duty, in another foreign land.

They talk with solemn countenance, theirs is a fiscal cost,
They balance what the war is worth against the soldiers lost,
While I sit in my rented flat and watch my small TV
Another casualty of war, another amputee.

A new war then develops, a war that no one see’s,
A dirty war with men with pen’s, “fight me,” behind the scene’s.
Men who sit in lavish suits, “the cats who get the cream,”
“Men who’ll cut my recompense” and take my self esteem.

Dan Lake 


Jim Jam Pam

There’s a lady in our tiny town
We call her Jim Jam Pam
She wears pyjama’s everywhere
Any time she can
She’s such a lovely lady
As she shops in her attire
The hairdresser’s, the dentist,
While she queue’s in the fish fryer

She tucks her jim jams up so high
To hide them neath her coat
But every little while you’ll see
At least one side will float
Slowly down her leg until
It slips beneath her knee
And continues on its course
For everyone to see

The middle of the afternoon
Will see her in the town
Walking her two little dogs
Still in her dressing gown
Everybody loves her
I’m sure there’ll come a time
Half the town will follow suit
And I’ll be wearing mine

I can see her on the front page
Of Vogue magazine
Setting fashions in Paris
For all the world to see
The world ablaze with winceyette
And slippers on it’s feet
And chintzy jamma’s on display
Of model’s as they meet

Our Jim Jam Pam will go undaunted
Laughing on her way
At all the weird folk round her
Who stop and have their say
“Hello Pam”, how are you
“Why isn’t this the thing,”
We thought that we would join you
In our town called Godalming

Dan Lake


“Lady Lost Five Sons”

“Mother of the Guard” it said, carved in the cold black stone,
Honoured by the King and whole Country,
Who was this special lady who acquired a “New Headstone”
Born in Chatham, Kent across the sea.
Far away from England’s shores, she lay in this graveyard,
In Winnipeg, Brookside, all alone.
She’d rested sixty years or more beneath the cold damp clay,
Forgotten like the names carved on her stone.

“Charlotte Susan Wood”, it said, she’d died in thirty nine,
But now the date was “Two Thousand and Two.
Somebody had remember, the sacrifice she made,
“Five Sons” it said who’d died for me and you.
She was Canada’s “War Mother” the first woman to receive
“The Silver Cross”, heavily inscribed,
Here on the black marble with it’s granite plinth below,
Were the names of her five sons, who’d fought and died.

Louis, Fred, Harry, Joe and Percy were all gone,
Eleven sons in all marched in good cheer.
The King had told this woman, as he’d shook the pilgrims hand,
“Madam, I wish your sons were here”.
They’d met in “Thirty Five,” at Vimy Ridge the unveiling,
She represented, “Canada’s War Mothers”
Chosen to place a wreath, at “Westminster abbey’s Tomb”
Of the “Unknown Soldier” “Charlotte cried with others.

It’s easy to forget those grieving Mum’s of yesteryear,
The hierarchy would prefer you forgot.
Like Charlotte Woods who gave so much and mothers just like her,
Who end up in an unnamed lonely plot.
But someone saw the magnitude, a saintly guiding hand,
Worked tirelessly for all women so brave
And now I stand a better man before this monument
That tells me “Charlotte Woods” is in this grave.


Dan Lake



That job

My current job is driving me insane,
The workload’s ever greater and inane.
I take it home and slave on through the night,
This pressures made me ill it cant be right.

No, leaving this behind will be just fine,
I’ll find a job to let me have more time,
“The pig,” I call my boss just delegates
And often goes off playing with his mates.

I’ll search the broadsheets Oh so carefully,
To find that job that’s purpose made for me,
That job that will allow me rest and play,
That job I know will brighten up my day.

An MP, there’s a job. “I hear you say.”
“That’s not a job, that’s leisure time with pay!”
Sitting in the commons as they snore,
No, it’s not for me it’s bound to boor.

I’m looking for a job out of the throng,
Where no-one cares if I should get it wrong,
A job where I can stand out in the sun
And smile a lot, where I can have some fun.

Wait a minute there’s the job for me!
I’ll be famous, seen on the TV.
I’ll take that number, I’ll give that a twirl.
I think that I’ll become a “Weather Girl.”

Dan Lake



This Vietnam

The hearse drives by, while shoppers gaze,
This awful mess, this pungent haze.
The newspaper, “Here’s what it said”
A sidepage mentions “one more dead”.
No rhyme or reason what they think.
But we the public smell the “Stink,”
That emanates from down Whitehall
Those nere do well’s, those free for all’s.

“Assurance comes from those in suits”
That men who live and die in boots,
Who, losing limbs and leaving wives,
And families with broken lives,
They wont complain, “Their doing their Job”.
While mothers, wife’s and children sob.
This Vietnam, this costly war
This spectre that knocks at our door.

And while we see another gun
Stuck in the sand, another son,
A helmet resting on the hilt
Swinging slowly, more blood is spilt.
A Chaplin say’s another prayer
The age old psalm for soldiers there.
Our Politicians rest and play,
While on their “endless” holiday.

Dan Lake


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