Colonel Crampon Goes Off

Colonel Crampon Goes Off

His brolley drips pools of dreary water
on the mock marble floor at Kelvedon station
he remembers when there used to be a porter
here to help with bags, chat to whilst waiting
now there's just a fat man that sells bad news
and worse coffee. Colonel Crampon buys both,
his Telegraph expunging the same sad truths
we're all going to the dogs, and Crampon's past hope.
Prince of Wales check, the tie with the stain
his eyes droop unable to stand to attention
H ow many of us are there waiting for trains
he wonders, sick as schools boys in detention?
How many of us quaking at the high windows?
Told to be terrified of the Muslim, the mugger
hands shaking, gaudy eyes agog at these grim shows
and she's gone, yes she's gone,
bugger all this,
bugger.

The electric train clack-clacks towards the capital
the carriages pillaged by cock-sure commuters
news strewn like shell casings, cheap and fanatical
eat this, wear that, and pay less if you do it on a computer.
and somewhere past Ilford the fields simply run out
grey concrete slabs replace dumb cattle grazing
a black box of flats loiters, looms like a lout
but castrated like the violent rain on the glazing.
like the daily medicines of radio and books
he pours on the milk-curdling scream in his gut
which is stoked by the leers of celebrity cooks
by those new Labour girlies who spin us and glut.
till onto the concourse and blitzkrieged by sex
tired tits pushing up, skin scraping on rubber
you can't see the love for the special effects
and she's gone, yes she's gone,
bugger all this,
bugger.

A black cab from the rank to the jewelers on Bond Street
where sixty years ago he'd breezed in on leave
with a month's wages that left him light on his feet
his black hair, moustache, the two stripes on his sleeve
the stuff of war films now, as a gaunt ghost in the glass
stares back. He doesn't go in. Instead shuffles along
down to The Strand, where they had walked in the syrup past
arm-in-arm like human beings should, through a throng
of excitable knobbly-faced young Brits
to Simpsons where he'd proposed and she'd said yes,
then down John Adam Street, where a grimy tramp sits
on the stained pavement, his face a caved-in mess,
and onto the north bank where six decades previous
his English reserve flew and he had to stop to hug her
oh but life gets so stark, so dreadful and tedious
'cause she's gone, yes she's gone,
bugger all this,
bugger.

So brogue upon brogue he climbs up the stair well
wrought iron shaking under thunderous clout
mind wailing in tune with the intruder alarm bell
till fire doors bang open and London spills out
in front of him, a half mile up, his comb-over flies
and Crampon screams bulging eyes, red faced and spinning
Bugger all this, bugger double-think and lies
those meat-headed men and traitorous women
Bugger your media, Bugger your stars
bugger your make-overs, bugger this time
bugger your shopping malls, bugger your bars
if that's your sanity then this will be mine!
and he ran to the edge with an arthritic dive
as police burst onto the roof top to scupper
and he flew like an angel laughing, alive
and I'm gone, yes I'm gone
Bugger all this,
Bugger!