I Must Have Been Sleeping

'Where are you going, ' I heard her say
As the dream took me straight to the core,
We parked at the side of a very long road
And I got out the driver's door;
'I've never known that, ' I replied, and she sat
On her hands, with the pain of surprise,
'So what you've been saying has never been true! '
The tears rose up in her eyes!

'The road has been long, the road has been wide,
I never knew where I could turn.'
'I thought you were happy with me, ' she said;
There was nothing to say in return.
'I must have been sleeping for seventeen years, '
My voice sounded foreign and coarse,
But I couldn't handle the sighs and the lies,
Or the terrible sound of - 'divorce! '

I walked to the wood at the side of the road,
And followed the pathway around,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Scribe in the Woods of Time

There's an ancient wood where nobody goes
That's hid in the mists of time,
It covers a hundred miles or so
To the west of the Eden line;
The passengers on the rattling train
Will pull at the blinds, and stare,
But no-one's game to get off the train
With the howl of the wolves out there!

And the stories told of walkers, who
Have never come back to tell,
Of monstrous birds that tore at their throats,
Of blood, congealed in a well;
There are cats out there as big as goats
The snakes are draped through the trees,
And vampire bats float down in a cloud
When there's more than a passing breeze.

So none will venture into the wood
Not now, or in times gone by,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Holly Go Round

I had given up on Holly, since the time,
(When rather jolly) , she had
Leapt between the covers of
My friend, Rick Barnard's bed.
She had been apologetic, had
Been feeling quite splenetic, could
I 'just ignore, forget it? '
I won't tell you what I said!

So she went to live with Harry,
Then I heard she'd married Gary,
But was playing up with Larry,
How the rumours seemed to grow!
I'd begun to favour Mitsy, who
It's true, was often tipsy,
And was too much of a gypsy, so
I had to let her go.

Then this Gary came to see me
And he sat there, not too near me

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Valley of Dreadful Night

He hid in the fields and hedgerows,
And skirted the towns by night,
He lay in the barns of deserted farms
To sleep, when the time was right.
He always kept one step ahead
Of the pack that would hunt him down,
And stole his food in the neighbourhood
Of the cottages, far from town!

He thought of his love, his Jenny,
And gave out a savage cry,
He'd found her lying with Jack Malone
Like a pig, in a rutting sty,
He'd plunged the dagger into the heart
Of his love, and his one delight,
Then watched the fire leach out of her eyes
To the Valley of Dreadful Night!

Malone, he'd left as a warning,
His throat slit ear to ear,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Turncoat

Set me out forewarned
While the heather glistened,
Tramped the starbright road
While my lady listened,
Soldiers at the doors,
Muskets at the casement,
All Kilmarnock groaned,
Milady in the basement.

There the road to Ayr
There the road to Dumfries
Torn by here or there
Mauchline; there lay Humphries:
‘Where’s the Laird o’ Fife? ’
Pikemen swarm all over,
All the red stained coats
By Portsmouth, and by Dover.

‘Take the road, ’ she said,
‘Take it, I’ll come after,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Strike!

I'll admit I was running late that day,
Back home from the trailer park,
It was cold and wet in the alleyway
As I made my way in the dark,
My wife had run off with the milkman
Left me caring for two young boys,
They were at that age - you know the one,
Where they scatter the house with toys!

The hall was lying in darkness, but
I could hear them, back in the house,
Their voices raised in an argument,
The why's and the where's, and how's,
I walked on into the kitchen, then
And stood stock still at the door,
If I hadn't been self-possessed that day
My jaw would have hit the floor!

‘Okay, fess up! Who brought it home? '
But Tim just gave me a scowl,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Time Has Come...

The vicar went to the valley,
A mountain on either side,
He built a small log cabin
To comfort his future bride,
The wind between the mountains
Brought echoes of far-off plains,
More often than not in the heart of the night,
Someone called his name.

The voice was sometimes muffled,
The voice, it sometimes screamed,
Whole sentences were chanted
Broke in on the vicar's dreams,
The sounds were like a mirage
Half heard from a distant town,
Whenever the wind would begin to rise
He heard the strangest sounds.

A tap-tap-tap in the morning,
A tap-tap-tap at night,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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On The Lam

‘I'm going away today, ' he said,
‘I'm going away for good! '
We looked at his suitcase, neatly packed,
‘We don't really think you should! '

‘It doesn't matter a fig to me
Whatever you want me to,
I said that I'm going away, I did,
And that's what I'm going to do.'

The wife looked beat, admitted defeat,
And stalked back into the house,
While I sat down on the garden wall
And stomped on the odd wood louse.

‘So where do you think you'll spend the night
When it comes to the end of the day,
When the Moon comes up and the lights go out
And the Wolves begin to bay? '

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Swan Dive

The windows were open
The night air was cold,
The curtains were blowing
Like ribbons of gold,
We stood there forever
Both Henry and me,
The night his wife dived
Off the balcony.

We looked at each other
We each shook our head,
And waited to hear if
The poor girl was dead,
I looked at my watch
It was just after three,
When Gwendoline dived
Off the balcony.

I waited a moment, then:
'What did I say?

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Concubine

Chen Xiao Fei while the sun does shine
Was taken as the Emperor's concubine,
Just one of a hundred from the village Yang Ping
And chosen by the placing of a bright gold ring.

The Emperor's minions took her by the hand
And led her far away from the life she'd planned,
Her tears flew wide as she said zy jian
To the Ma ma, signing her away with a pen.

She said farewell to her friends from the school
Then they bathed her well in a rose-petalled pool,
They dressed her in the silks of a young girl's dream
And gave her to the Emperor, at just fourteen.

She lodged with the other of his concubines
Who taught her the rules she must follow all times
She never must climb in the top of his bed
But crawl beneath the sheet from his feet to his head.

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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