Discovered deep in the dusty, cobwebbed psyche of an ancient tribe of nice people… more to come as soon as they are translated from the Old Sort of English
… Dive throws out cans and bottles late, when we’re asleep in bed
I’d like to put on rubber gloves and smack his baldy head…
He hochs and coughs outside and in, a phlegm-y, ghastly hack
We should record it, amplify and play the bugger back…
In fact, noise seems to be Dive’s favourite substitute for thought
As is the case with vessels when their ballast’s running short…
The grandkids send us off’rings of unwanted toys by air
Plus sticks, a trowel, a garden broom and shoes – sometimes a pair
These gifts are not a sign of generosity, alack
For when we’re out they scale the fence and steal the off’rin’s back.
Once we tried to repatriate the items by return;
“’It me I’ww fuckin’ kiww yer son,” was Dive’s ungrateful spurn.
These ancient texts (THE BALLAD OF DIVE-AN-IZOO) are pure myth and undoubtedly based on entirely fictitious characters and events. Any likeness to real life is purely coincidental…