I WILL NOT WRITE A SONG
©Trev Teasdel Coventry January 1973


Sitting in my room I read the ‘Siege of Gondor‘
In the”War of the Ring of Mordor“
Full of the dread and the dead and the bloodshed
Enough to make a heart quake and quail.


Putting down the book to sip some coffee
I turned on the radio to hear
The latest dribble of one hit blunders,
when in the gloom of my thought
rose a voice, articulate yet monotoned.
The ‘on the hour‘ BBC newscaster,
communicating to my ears
the latest groans of the wizened and wide world outside.


He told of the bombing of North Vietnam
of truce broken and of suffering
and the dread and dead and the bloodshed.
He told of the earthquakes and looting and gunshooting
and told us to beware of on coming motorway smog.


At this point i would have lit up a fag
cause I could have done with a drag ‘cept I don’t smoke.
And I felt like writing a song and i said to myself ” I’ll write a song“
With paper to pen, I thought again and decided against it there and then.
For what can one song do that a thousand before failed to do?
How can one song change the fate of the world, stop a war, open a door or give life to the dying?
What can one man’s tears do to avail
when many a million have been shed but to fail?
How can a song change the fate  of the world?
Yet it is said that a song can influence a man into action
and many have served to serve humbly their cause
but none that I know of, have served to throw off
the evils which besiege our sitting room goggle box gods.
So what can it do to write a song/
No I will not write a song.
I will not, will not, will not write a song.
I may as well conserve the effort and have myself a damn good shit.
So I sipped some more coffee before pulling down the seat to sit upon the loo.
And the shit that i had was a good one too,
the best I had had for along time.
Then i pulled up my pants, flushed the pan, washed my hands
and tightening my belt, I stooped to stroke the Poodle that was
pining to be let out for a pee.
And I opened the door and let him free to free his pee
and somehow I knew that the pee that he peed was the best that he’d peed for a long time.
And shutting the door with  a clunk and a clink
and a pick of my nose, that with a flick, fell to the floor.
I sat on the bed, scratching my head, fearing the dread and the dead and bloodshed.
And if my words to you seem so foul, then how you must howl
at the reasons why I will not write a song.
No I will not, will not, will not write a song.