Showing posts with label The 1970's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The 1970's. Show all posts

Sunday, 8 October 2017

1973 - 74 : Up The Creek

One ha’ penny in his begging bowl
dirty finger nail scratches his soul.
Oi mate! can you spare me a smoke?
Get a job, snarled a grey suited bloke.

The call of the ballot, eighty one percent
unions have given their consent;
the radio broadcasts a stark news flash,
miners on strike, there’s no more cash.

See ’em all on a 3 day week,
the lights have gone out
we’re right up the creek.

Disgruntled bean counters on the 3rd floor
the plaques fallen off  the directors door:
Rod Stewart bangs on, You wear it well.
From his ivory tower the grey suit fell.

See ’em all on a 3 day week,
the lights have gone out
we’re right up the creek.

Dirty finger nail scratches his soul
two ha’ pennies in his begging bowl,
he looks on the suit with little care
Oi mate! I've got a ha'penny to share.

See ’em all on a 3 day week,
the lights have gone out
we’re right up the creek.

Notes:
To help conserve coal stocks and limit the commercial use of electricity the prime minister of the day,  Edward Heath, on 31 December 1973, implemented the Three-Day Work Order which remained in force up to 7th March 1974. Along side the miners strike the government had to deal with the 1973 - 74 oil crises / embargo.
(How those glasses become more rose tinted as time passes with age)


Julian Clarke © 2017

Linked to
Poets United, Sunday Pantry

Sunday, 19 June 2016

1977 Number 8

Being a teenager in the 1970's were certainly fun times, especially with the huge change of musical genres. As the sixties smoked itself into oblivion and the last petal fell off the flower power daze a new epoch of self expression was evolving.



Man with a stick climbed on board
the bloke in a cap committed fraud
girl with Mohican spikey red hair
smug flat cap he dodged the fare;

the dole delinquent single mum
mohican red hair chews on gum
the dirty old stick admired her tits
noisy school kids the little gits:

on number eights smoky top deck
teenagers smoke and swear like feck
a lamenting moan of a grubby drunk
back seats reserved for safety pin punks;

the drivers driving smoking his fags
the punks are punking anarchic gags
a spot ridden face full of hate
down the pub on bus number 8.