Author: shirgib123

There once was a couple called Domie and Boris
Who hosted a party in their garden of roses
All their pals and the media had gathered there
For Domie Cummings, his soul to bare

We had a pandemic in the World you see
The people were told they were no longer free
To go outside and socialise
Nor visit their loved ones as they died

But that rule was not for everyone
And Cummings broke it with impunity
He got a story drafted for us
Knowing that Boris would provide immunity

After all Boris had nothing else on his plate
Just the pandemic and that could wait
So he and his cronies supported their buddy
As the truth, his tale, was intended to muddy

Fairy Tale of Barnard Castle
[Based loosely] on the tune of “Fairy Tale of New York”, The Pogues]

“ My eyes were fuzzy and I could not see so good
So we all got in my car. I’m really quite a dude
And then we had a trip to Barnard Castle town
But going back again, we had to stop”

Then the river was calling so we took a little walk
Alongside it’s rippling flow we passed the time
But then we had to leave to drive back home again
Then came the miracle, my sight was fine

Now that bit is the truth there will be no regrets
And I’ve always got Boris to watch my back
Though I spread the beastie
through our green and pleasant land
I am pretty sure that I’ll not get the sack

Chorus
We’ve got cars big as bars
We’ve got bank accounts to match
So we really don’t care much
For daft rules on our patch
Just let all the low paid keep this country fit
While we open the champagne and dream of Brexit

He’s a bum
He’s a twit
He’s gotta be on smack
If he thinks we believe him
He’s buttoned up the back

As the boys of the right wing syndicate
were singing Jerusalem
The bells were ringing out for Dominie

Shirley Costello Gibson 02.06.2020 copyright

Beautiful hot air balloon and blanket by Gibberz Creations

Accessories for your Xmas elf

As red as the blood spilt on battlefields,
The poppy It’s tale to tell,
Of the young ones lying so far from home,
Freed now from their living hell.

There’s no marching feet and wheelchair spin,
The Cenotaph to salute,
But we’ll remember in our hearts,
Those other marching boots.

So many young ones in their youthful zest,
Signed with their crosses on the line,
Who would’ve known they’d die, tied to a post,
Their light extinguished, no more to shine.

Some lie secretly underground,
The tunnel their muddied resting place,
After the walls crumbled into dust,
And they were claimed by Mother Earth’s embrace.

We remember the young who served on land, sea and sky
For their country to retain its pride,
But, through their role in our narrative,
Too many of them paid the price.

The poppy fields of no man’s land,
Hold testament to the stories,
Of comradeship and unbroken bonds,
In our country’s pursuit of glory.

Yes, we remember their sacrifice
And, in our ongoing plight,
We turn to the young once again,
To help us to fight this fight.

But the young will survive this time,
And, when they do,
There will be poppies abounding,
And life will renew.

Shirley Gibson 28.10.2020

As there will not be any arts and craft fairs this year, Wendy has set up a virtual event.
check her Facebook page for other Xmas treats Gibberz Creations.

Reindeer glitter is edible

If you drive along the road from Overton to Heysham, Lancashire you will come to the Village of Sunderland Point, a small village which consists of a row of Georgian houses looking out over an estuary; a sanctuary for many seabirds. The road leading into the village is flooded twice a day at high tide so beware. Sunderland Point was also a prominent port for ships trading in sugar and tobacco particularly those ships that were too big to traverse the narrow waterway leading to the larger Port of Lancaster

If you take a short walk out of the village along a lane overgrown with blackberry bushes and trees, you reach a green field where you will find the grave of a young black slave who was named “Sambo”. It is said that he came to Sunderland Point from the West Indies in 1736 on board his Master’s ship where he served as a cabin boy. “Sambo” was left there when his Master sailed off on a smaller boat to Lancaster on business.

While his Master was away, “Sambo” died. One theory is that he was so stricken by his Master’s abandonment of him that he died of a broken heart. Another is that he wasted away and died from an illness against which he had no immunity. It is said that he died in Upsteps Cottage, No1 The Lane.  It is not known whether or not his Master eventually came back for him. I suppose that the whole truth is now lost in the mists of time

“Sambo” or “Samboo” [As stated on his grave stone] was buried in open windswept land looking out towards the Irish Sea. Soon word spread about this little grave in unconsecrated ground and people started to visit the village looking for it.

One such visitor was the Reverend James Watson, a retired headmaster from Lancaster who visited the site in 1795. He was so taken by the stories about “Sambo” that he proceeded to collect money for a plaque upon which he had a poem that he had written engraved.

James’ brother, William Watson, was actually a prominent Lancaster slave trader making the epitaph written by James on Sambo’s headstone all the more compelling :

Full sixty years the angry winter’s wave,
Has thundering dashed this bleak and barren shore,
Since Sambo’s head laid in this lonely grave,
Lies still and ne’er will hear their turmoil more.

Full many a Sand-bird chirps upon the Sod
And many a moonlight Elfin round him trips

Full many a Summer’s Sunbeam warms the Clod
And many a teeming cloud upon him drips.

But still he sleeps — till the awakening Sounds
Of the Archangel’s Trump new life impart

Then the GREAT JUDGE his approbation founds
Not on man’s COLOR but his worth of heart

The Reverend James Watson’s verse on the grave was written in 1796, and can still be seen. The content is a forerunner of Martin Luther King’s famous oration in 1963:

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character.”