Ode To Dylan Thomas
(Celebrating the centenary of his birth)
It is Christmas in the city
the non sleeping, night clubbing
dub-step bubbling city of hopes and dreams
The bible black times have disappeared
The Christmas crowds cheered
For the neon lighted, decorously lighted
Permanently excited city of streets
Paved with glittering gold
To hold
The thronged and molten masses of Wales
Wales...
The party going, soap opera knowing
debt ridden, assembly bidden
drunken hordes
all tattooed and tribal
rugby redded, easily bedded
out for the night
and the right to...Paaarty!!!
Hush the royal babies are sleeping
the shop lifters, the benefit scroungers,
the Rumanian and Bulgarian job taking,
immigrant making Wales.
Hush the business bankrupts are sleeping
the privatised postman,
young girls lie bedded soft by corrupted celebrity
safe in their Catholicism
Hush you can hear the planet warming
and the drunken city chorusing out
their Band Aid and Gift Aid
Come closer
the Central African Republic is sleeping
with machetes by their beds,
their streets running red
half protecting their life expecting
to end at an average 48 years old
But in the Christmas Cardiff cold
Boomtown Bob sings
that he's a multi millionaire
Whoever said life was fair?
Only your eyes are unclosed
to the minecraft and match fixing
the open mikes and drone strikes
on the world's city that never sleeps
And keeps itself awake
for the sake
of a few class A drugs
some 'Free Hugs'
in a carrier bag that cost 5p
strewn across the Christmas tree
with the puke
and a nuke from Iran
we can hear
Hugo Chavez spinning in his grave
Hush
Hushed forever Nelson Mandela
has gone
but the economic apartheid lives on
gone Thatcher the milk snatcher
hushed forever are the mines
and the miners
only Russell Brand pipes up to Paxman
in vain
trying once again
to make it plain
we need to redistribute the wealth
as the hospitalised Health Service of a nation
waits 6 hours in an ambulance station
for a private takeover
or maybe a makeover
from Aneurin Bevan
looking down from heaven
at the processional salt slow musical march
moving through the streets
Listen.
It is night.
Time passes
Listen
It is Christmas in the city
Come closer now
Time passes
And still we have a dream
(Celebrating the centenary of his birth)
It is Christmas in the city
the non sleeping, night clubbing
dub-step bubbling city of hopes and dreams
The bible black times have disappeared
The Christmas crowds cheered
For the neon lighted, decorously lighted
Permanently excited city of streets
Paved with glittering gold
To hold
The thronged and molten masses of Wales
Wales...
The party going, soap opera knowing
debt ridden, assembly bidden
drunken hordes
all tattooed and tribal
rugby redded, easily bedded
out for the night
and the right to...Paaarty!!!
Hush the royal babies are sleeping
the shop lifters, the benefit scroungers,
the Rumanian and Bulgarian job taking,
immigrant making Wales.
Hush the business bankrupts are sleeping
the privatised postman,
young girls lie bedded soft by corrupted celebrity
safe in their Catholicism
Hush you can hear the planet warming
and the drunken city chorusing out
their Band Aid and Gift Aid
Come closer
the Central African Republic is sleeping
with machetes by their beds,
their streets running red
half protecting their life expecting
to end at an average 48 years old
But in the Christmas Cardiff cold
Boomtown Bob sings
that he's a multi millionaire
Whoever said life was fair?
Only your eyes are unclosed
to the minecraft and match fixing
the open mikes and drone strikes
on the world's city that never sleeps
And keeps itself awake
for the sake
of a few class A drugs
some 'Free Hugs'
in a carrier bag that cost 5p
strewn across the Christmas tree
with the puke
and a nuke from Iran
we can hear
Hugo Chavez spinning in his grave
Hush
Hushed forever Nelson Mandela
has gone
but the economic apartheid lives on
gone Thatcher the milk snatcher
hushed forever are the mines
and the miners
only Russell Brand pipes up to Paxman
in vain
trying once again
to make it plain
we need to redistribute the wealth
as the hospitalised Health Service of a nation
waits 6 hours in an ambulance station
for a private takeover
or maybe a makeover
from Aneurin Bevan
looking down from heaven
at the processional salt slow musical march
moving through the streets
Listen.
It is night.
Time passes
Listen
It is Christmas in the city
Come closer now
Time passes
And still we have a dream
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