Author Archives: trevor

Small Talk

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SMALL TALK
©Trev Teasdel Middlesbrough January 1981

You probably think I’m rather boring,
Guaranteed to send you snoring.
I don’t seem to have a lot to say,
I might just as well slept all day
I could’ve stayed in, on my own,
Spoke to the clock on the telephone
Spoke to the clock on the telephone

Chorus
Small talk, Small talk
Small talk, Small talk
Talk to your smalls!.

I never seem to do much with my life.
I secretly fancy next door’s wife.
I potter about, here and there,
Rub a bit cream in my thinning hair.
I mow the lawn, I yawn and yawn,
I’m just about as dumb as a new babe born.

(Bridge)
People put me in the picture, 
they say I’m in the cold.
They try to re-adjust me, 
turn my horizontal hold.
But I know what I know,
What I don’t know doesn’t matter.
I can’t get started on all this idle chatter.

Chorus

You may say I’m just a viewer
My contribution is just manure.
I can’t seem to form my own opinions
I only shed tears when I peel onions
I watch TV, just to see
What I could be doing if I didn’t watch TV


I’m waiting for the lady who brings the pools
She calls me the fella who drools and drools.
I have a little bet on a little horse
I watch it in colour go round the course.
Am I boring you, I probably do.
If you think I’m boring then so are you.
If you think I’m boring then so are you.



Political Hurricane

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POLITICAL HURRICANE
©Trev Teasdel Great Ayton 2013

Some say its a swindle
I read it all on Kin-dle
It’s nimble as a thimble
Nothing is so simple.
It’s insane –
Political Hurricane.

It sweeps across the nation
With a swoop of devastation.
The trains stay in the station,
of impoveration.
It’s insane –
Political Hurricane.

Bridge
You may think that its a swindle
but everyone’s got Kin-dle.
Books are out fashion,
They don’t bring the cash in.
It’s insane – Political Hurricane.

The seas are rising high
and the wind spins off a spindle.
I read it all on Kin-dle
That profit margins dwindle
It’s insane –
Political Hurricane.

Read it on the screen
If you’re going green.
Paper is a caper
And the world hangs on a taper.
It’s insane –
Political Hurricane,

Political Hurricane.


……
Wrote a number of lyrics of a political nature for Stockton on Tees funk maverick techno keyboard songwriter, Steve Cooke. As yet, not used. https://soundcloud.com/stevecooke

Undressing for the Drones

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UNDRESSING FOR THE DRONES
Trev Teasdel March 2013 Great Ayton – Music Steve Cooke.

All the pubs are closing down
And there’s a peep show in town
Watching you in a crowd
Watching you all alone
Undressing for the drones
Undressing for the drones

Movement is restricted
District to district
And if they feel inclined
They watch the pictures in your mind
Undressing for the drones
Undressing for the drones

Bridge
They’re working undercover
Spying on each other
They’ll be making arrests
For all this corporate burlesque
Undressing for the drones
Undressing for the drones etc. 

Words by Trev Teasdel
Music by Steve Cooke
© Cooke/Teasdel 2012
…………


Another one written for Stockton on Tees funk maverick Steve Cooke. He wanted some political lyrics. This one is set to a Human League style track. I wrote the lyric on mobile notepad while walking my lawnmower for repair on Stokesley industrial estate. The Station Hotel, where we used to go to see blues bands was boarded up and thus the first line. A headline in the newsagents was about the advent of drones and the implications. Hence the song.

Women on the Change

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WOMEN ON THE CHANGE
©Trev Teasdel  January 1981 – Middlesbrough / Coventry.

There’s fear in the street,
In the heart and in the home.
There’s sadness in the eyes
and anger in the soul.
There’s a mugger in the street
A bugger in the alley.
There’s a bully in the home
and a weirdo on the phone.
It’s time that men left the women alone.

Chorus –
Cos women are on the change,
They won’t be led or bullied.
Women are on the change
They won’t be hully-gullied.
Your ornaments are jumping,
off the mantelpiece,
Going through the changes
Handing back the lease.
Women on the Change
Women on the Change.


We’re living in a dog’s world,
Where the cats are tamed with milk.
They are used for warmth and comfort,
Chased and hounded just for sport.
They are bitten by the prowler,
Barked at by the howler.
Cornered by the snarler,
Snapped at in the parlour.
Time that dogs left the cats alone.

There’s a whisper in the wind,
A clenched fist in a handbag.
There’s a meeting in the evening,
And a slogan in the subway.
There’s a hacksaw at the shackles,
There’s a banner march today.
There’s an axe that’s being grinded
A cluttered path to clear away.
Time that men shared the world with women.
Time that men shared the world with women.


………


Wrote this on a visit back to Coventry while doing my degree on Teesside. The city had become more violent and women in particular were being targeted. There was graffiti on the subway saying ‘Disarm rapists’ or ‘Reclaim the night’. I finished the song back on Teesside. The lyric appeared in my poetry chapbook The Escaped Poet 1984 and in Outlet Magazine 1988.



Women on the change – Trev Teasdel 1981 from Trev Teasdel on Vimeo.

Won’t You Join me in a Cup of Tea

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WON’T YOU JOIN ME IN A CUP OF TEA? 
©Trev Teasdel  Coventry September 1968

Won’t you join me in a cup of tea, 
Sally..
I say…’You’re looking pretty to-day‘
Won’t you join me in a cup of tea,
And you will see, what you mean to me.
Sally.

Call the waitress to the table
And she says she’s not able, 
to supply us with tea, only coffee.
So won’t you join me in a cup of coffee, Sally.

We talk about anything that comes to mind
Let’s both unwind and drink our coffee, Sally,
Won’t you kiss me and 
You will see what you mean to me
Sally.

As we tumble on our way, to find somewhere to stay
The sky looks rather grey
It’s likely gonna snow
So we must find somewhere to go,
Sally.

Caressing in a cave
I lend my ears to a wave, of fresh air.
I stop and stare, into the face of fire,
And with great haste, I say to
Sally, it’s time for coffee.
But she said there’s only tea.
So I piled on some more wood
And Sally returned home for bed
And she said ‘Goodnight’ to me

Oh Sally…..

Woo-ee Turtle Dove

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WOO-EE TURTLE DOVE
©Trev Teasdel – Coventry December 1971

Woo-ee – Turtle Dove,
Dig ya big blue beautiful lamps.
Lashes like Lord Kitchener’s finger,
Dipped in dusk dark mascara.
Pale shadows leave your eyes,
Touch your Roman nose –
Woo ee Turtle Dove
You bring out the beast in me.

Woo ee Turtle Dove
Admire your agile abdomen.
Calls captivates and cages my eyes.
I feel your force field pulling.
You molten magnet you.
Just want me in your shoes you do.
Woo ee Turtle Dove
You bring out the beast in me.

Woo ee Turtle Dove
Evergreen my myrtle tree.
Limb entwiner, overload my circuit.
Pray thy magnetism’s not electro.
Don’t want no one switching you off.
Woo ee Turtle Dove
You bring out the beast in me.

Woo ee Turtle Dove
Dolly disco dancer.
Tasselled trendy, toucheth me.
Unzippa kippa.
With mad magic movie words of woe.
Let me vibrate with you.
Woo ee Turtle Dove
You drive me out of my Cranium.


……..


A kinda satire on the T Rex thing at the time when it was in full rage.

Woo ee Turtle Dove by Trev Teasdel

Village of My Mind

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VILLAGE OF MY MIND
©Trev Teasdel, Coventry May 1969

Oh the sun doesn’t shine, in the village of my mind
And the doors never open in the palace of my heart
And the walls to be broken of the shell of my soul
And my kaleidoscopic eyes are hidden by houseflies.

Oh the coalsheds of my nostrils are where I spend my days
And the voices of the walls bellow through my ears
And my thoughts are a dustbin, dusty and unhealthy.

And I am the steam train engine, and life is the railway track.
And my friends are hollow drainpipes,

And my illusions they are diamonds,
Made of melting ice.

Happiness is a word I can not comprehend,
If experience is understanding,
Then this word has no meaning for me..

Oh my years are speeding boats racing ‘cross the water
And I hide in the safety of the tastebuds of my tongue.
And I peer frequently through the gaps in my incisor teeth
To see the sun shining on the carnival outside.

I am the anchor of my ship
I am the handbrake of my car
I am the roots of my tree
I am the bolt across my door
But if I am to be happy
I must eject myself from the airplane of my present life.

Search the Crowd

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SEARCH THE CROWD
©Trev Teasdel Coventry April 1971

Think I’ll go down town,
To see who’s around
You know I’m feeling down,
Drag my feet along the ground
Search the sidewalk for a pound
That which is lost must be found

Gypsies selling lucky heather
My eyes are full of sidewalk hustlers.
Bus stop conversation debates the weather.
The bowed-down heads of hung up bustlers.
Charity tins chanting rhythms,
To the hurdy gurdy’s plaintive plea.
Search the crowd for her face
I need her here to comfort me.

Think I’ll bruise ‘round Woolworth’s,
Whilst the sun is hiding.
Browse through the record sleeves,
New releases I am seeking.
Searchin’ for someone to share a coffee with,
Meet a girl I used to know more than just vaguely,
But still searching for my lover’s face,
In this peaceless place.

Old friends criss-cross my path,
If they catch my gaze, I’ll smile they’ll laugh.
The market mongers personify,
Their lifeless goods.
Megaphone voices storm my brain.
Wishing away my ‘if only she woulds’.
My blistered blemished feet are lame,
Searching this faceless throng,
I see her face, no I am wrong.

(additional lyrics from a draft)
Just why did she leave without telling me?
Left it to a friend to impart it to me
The city sound penetrates your frame
when you’re feeling down.
Wonder what is her game
She just must be found
Search the crowd for her face, in this hell like place.


…………


Written in a café after walking downtown Coventry Precinct and being sold some lucky heather. I had in mind the atmosphere of Summer in the City by the Lovin’ Spoonful.

Runaway Train

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RUNAWAY TRAIN
©Trev Teasdel Coventry March 1970

Runaway train – you ran away,
You left my heart an empty tray.
Now I wander aimlessly,
But the station doesn’t comfort me.
So I’m singing poems to the flowers,
To pass away those empty hours.
Singing poems to the sky hi higher, higher…

Runaway plane – You took off,
Left my soul an empty trough.
Now I wander hastelessly,
But the airport doesn’t comfort me.
So I’m singing poems to the flowers,
To pass away those empty hours.
Singing poems to the sky hi higher, higher…

Runaway rain you caused me pain.
You trickled down a pavement drain.
Left my thoughts in disharmony,
But the rain clouds do not comfort me.
So I’m singing poems to the flowers,
To pass away those empty hours.
Hurling curses to the sky hi higher, higher…

BRIDGE
Kicking fallen beech tree leaves
As my poem gently weaves
Its way into an autumn breeze
Convey my message please
Convey my message please.

Runaway Jane – You disappeared,
You left my heart a cold deep fjord.
Now I swim in solitude.
My fixings have come unscrewed.
So I whisper poems to her afar,
She left my heart ajar.
Whisper poems to the sky hi higher higher…etc..

Runaway ship – you sailed alone,
You left my heart a cobwebbed throne.
I treated you so thoughtlessly.
Now the harbour doesn’t comfort me.
So I feed my poems to the flowers,
Take me back to your sacred bower
Just slinging poems to the sky hi higher, higher


….
The idea for the song came while studying at Coventry Technical College on a City and Guilds Electro-technology course. The lecturer, catching me writing lyrics during class, said “Trevor’s too busy writing poems to a flower to become an electrician.” Poems to a flower was from Donovan I think and he was right, I was no natural electrician. That was the careers officer’s choice not mine! Later in 1970, I used that idea to write this lyric.

Portrait of a Loner

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PORTRAIT OF A LONER
©Trev Teasdel  Shilton Nr Coventry July 1972

Alone
A figure draped in sadness, sorrows all alone.
A ragged, scarecrow cladded clown
All upon his own.
In blue embroided skintight loner jeans,
Listens to his mental drone,
Pulsing senseless rhythms down,
A silent suffering soul.

Always been alone,
Alone against the tongues of torment,
Always seem flown,
Flown against the tides of trials.
Stood alone
Contemplating the him he sees,
Is he just a perfect image,
In a figment of his own imagination.

The body,
Cased in clothes craves freedom.
Talk, always clawing, tearing people down.
His love, soaring higher, swooping low,
Never nesting,
Cries “I am the loner, I am the loner”
A perfect image in a figment of his own imagination.


….
Published as a poem in my first chapbook The Escaped Poet 1984.