Speccie: Night Music
 

The 'In a Jam' competition was won by Bazza who is on a roll at present. Chris O'Carroll took £25 and Bill Greenwell and Gail White just missed out. This week's comptition is good, in my opinion.

No. 2665: Night music
You are invited to submit a lullaby suitable for a modern child (16 lines maximum). Entries should be submitted, by email where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 15 September.

Who says I can't do leftie outrage?

Lullaby

Sleep tight, little mite,
Your Daddy’s at the bank.
He gets a 1000K for pay,
And, let me tell you, that ain’t hay.
Your life will be a holiday
And he’s the one to thank.

Sleep sound underground,
Your Mummy’s off her head.
Her fella’s given her a whack.
They’re sniffing glue, they’re smoking crack,
And Daddy isn’t coming back.
It’s better being dead.

Bummertime,
and the world is uneasy.
Fish are dying,
unemployment is high.
Oh, your daddy’s poor
but at least we’re not homeless,
So hush little baby,
don't you cry.

One of these mornings
you’re gonna go to college,
you’re gonna pay off loans
until kingdom come,
But till that morning
there ain't nothing gonna stress you,
So hush little baby
here’s a valium.

Hush my baby, don’t you cry my honey,
Daddy's in the boardroom making money,
Mamma’s at the spa doing Pilates,
Sister’s with her boyfriend being naughty,
Grandpa’s in a nursing home with granny,
but here I am, your dear old cyber-nanny.

LULLABY

Rock-a-bye baby,
have a good nap,
rest without knowing
the world's gone to crap.

Our currency's worthless,
the planet's too hot,
our leaders are clueless
and terrorists plot.

No hope for the future,
we're dug in too deep,
but rock-a-bye baby,
tonight you may sleep.

A Mother's Song
 

It doesn't matter when you sleep, but sleep.
The lights and noise ignite this life you keep.
It doesn't matter where you go, but stay,
and let me hope and think that you're okay.
It doesn't matter who you're with tonight,
or that this high has limited your sight.
It matters if you're frightened, or alone.
It matters that you won't pick up your phone.
It matters that I know you might not wake,
that "friends" might let you die for their own sake.
Your music, lights, your alcohol, your crack...
It matters that you know you can come back.

Stephenie, that is beautiful. If it doesn't win then that will be because it is too good for us. And if it doesn't win, try a proper poetry magazine.

Drills and amusements!
 

Much too good for the Speccie. Don't you dare send it there, Steph.

Wow. Thank you John and Steve. I'm pleased that you both like it. After reading Bazza's latest pieces, I considered this a rather banal little ditty, so I'm humbled by your responses.
Steph

It's breathtaking, Stephenie!

Stephanie, I found that very moving. No reason you can't do a serious one on a serious topic.

Hush little baby don't you cry,
Momma's gonna buy you a pizza pie,
and if that pie don't fill you up,
Momma's gonna buy you an ice cream cup,
and if that cup don't do the trick
Momma's gonna buy you a candy stick,
and if that stick don't go too far,
Momma's gonna buy you a chocolate bar,
and if you weigh three hundred pounds,
you'll still be the cutest little baby in town.


Rock a bye baby on the treetop
When the swing swings, the baby will rock,
When the swing breaks the baby will fall,
Because the new swing set is on recall.

I thought of a couple of the more wayward girls in my classes when I was a teacher, whom I now see pushing prams round the town with great determination.

My baby, my darling, my cherub, my chum,
I hope you'll grow up with more sense than your mum.
They're cutting the benefits; times will be tough.
I'm all you've got, and I hope I'm enough.
Lullay, lullay, la-lullay.

I dream you'll be healthy, and happy and rich.
Darling, don't be a doormat, but don't be a bitch.
And don't treat your mother like I treated mine,
'Cause frankly, my love, I was sometimes a swine.
Lullay, lullay, la-lullay.

I dream that one day you will meet with a lad
As nice as the bloke I think must be your dad.
I was young, wild and wilful, and he was the same,
But oh how I wish that I'd found out his name.
Lullay, lullay, la-lullay.

Lullaby

Hush, little baby, it's time to refresh
your brain's little browser, your keyboard of flesh,
it's time, little baby, oh baby of mine,
to exit your programs and slumber offline,
to pause in the middle of what you've been streaming
and bide for tonight on the pixels of dreaming.
Oh come, little baby, give daddy a hug,
and sleep, precious darling, it's time to unplug.
.
.

George, I think you may have done it.

I notice a number of us have used this contest as a critique of society.
This was mine:

Rock-a-bye baby, out on a limb,
Daddy's not working, but who'll hire him?
Job interviewers will laugh in his face
when they learn about that old embezzlement case.

Bye-baby-bunting, your mommy works too.
The less you know where, all the better for you.
Why some things are legal and others are not
has puzzled minds better than yours, little tot.

Bye baby bye, and be glad you don't know
that society went to the bad long ago,
and your parents, as part of society too,
are just two of the pains that life's saving for you.

Baby, don't sneer at your humble beginnings.
Your cradle was bought with our soccer pool winnings.
We manage to cope with our debts and our bills,
(though we wish we'd spent money on birth control pills).

I wonder if Lucy has this in mind, by Cecil Day Lewis

A Carol

Oh hush thee, my baby,
Thy cradle's in pawn:
No blankets to cover thee
Cold and forlorn.
The stars in the bright sky
Look down and are dumb
At the heir of the ages
Asleep in a slum.

The hooters are blowing,
No heed let him take;
When baby is hungry
'Tis best not to wake.
Thy mother is crying,
Thy dad's on the dole:
Two shillings a week is
The price of a soul.

Gail, I'm still cracking up over #3.

Frank

Sleep, my little Pollyanna,
in your Dolce and Gabana.
Mummy has a dream for you
which like hers could all come true.

You spread yourself across Page Three,
grin and bare it on TV,
buy a great big shopping bag
and find you've grown to be a WAG.

You score a striker, make him slaver,
you get a pre-nup in your favour.
You wed in haste and live in leisure
and, when it ends, repent in pleasure.

Sleep, my little Pollyanna,
in your Dolce and Gabana.
Mummy's dream could all come true.
What did for her could do for you.

One last try as the deadline approaches:


LULLABY

Rock a bye baby, snug in your diaper,
six months old, already a Skyper.

Rock a bye baby, nothing is cuter
than seeing your face on my computer.

I've left the volume set on high,
so hear my distant lullaby.

If anyone should hurt or vex you,
I will Skype, email or text you.

And if the world should dare offend you,
I'll be there online to friend you.

Rock a bye baby, darling young drowser,
close your sweet eyelids, but don't close your browser.