21st December 2010
Dear All
I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to read a factual review of the year: herewith a poem which I trust will entertain. It hopefully isn’t at all factual; but certainly we can never know everything that happens out on that famous – possibly soon infamous – island. A few years back I wrote a song, The Bad Birds’ Sad Bird Blues; this is another foray into what might be described as Marloes Noir.
Here’s hoping we all cope well with the “new normal” of 2021.
BLUEBILL AND BLACKFOOT
Bluebill and Blackfoot, two wicked puffins:
To get what they want, they don’t stop at nothin’.
Out on that island, they run all the rackets
And no one complains: folk don’t want concrete jackets!
Bluebill and Blackfoot, the worst seabirds afloat:
Put one foot wrong, there’s a knife at your throat.
Bluebill and Blackfoot, every day smuggling runs
Of the worst sort of drugs, or the most powerful guns.
Those busy birds never come out in the day:
The twitchers would notice their both wearing shades,
Gold jewellery, diamond studs, hand-crafted boots –
Plus the bulge of big guns inside very sharp suits.
Bluebill and Blackfoot, partners in crime:
They’ve never been caught, so they’ve never done time.
For years so much badness; but it’s true – all the while,
The Welsh cops have never had either on file!
All over Ireland and right across Wales
They’re leaving red herrings, and laying false trails;
They can track each boat movement, even far up the Haven:
No need for radar, they just ask the ravens.
The two Skomer wardens, on strict pain of death,
Don’t say what they see, dare not utter one breath
When the birds use their broadband for, tide flow or ebb,
So toxic their traffic upon the Dark Web…
Across the world, other bad birds are on line:
Though pretty the plumage, they’re evil defined!
So Bluebill and Blackfoot make known their firm wishes
That the people they name should be feeding the fishes.
Bluebill and Blackfoot, they love lots of noise:
Pump up the volume, they’re such happy boys.
Their penthouse burrow way out there on the cliffs
Always shakes end to end with heavy rock riffs.
Bluebill and Blackfoot, they love a thick fog!
That’s when they hide gin barrels deep in the bog.
The fumes prove that the brew they distil in the mist
Is fearfully strong, but those birds don’t get drunk!
Perhaps you protest, how can these birds plan
So much crime from that island, detached from the land?
Do you think that the seabirds don’t have any way
Of bulk-shipping contraband, day after day…?
Well, each time the Dale Princess sails, the seals
That folk love to photograph dive to her keel:
Using lobsters as spanners, they’re bolting on boxes
Of cocaine or Berettas – oh, they’re cunning as foxes!
Tons of gold stored in Switzerland, both rich as sheiks;
But are you perplexed by the billions they make?
For they’ve no use for Lear jets, or fast cars, and girls
Won’t marry them, even for diamonds and pearls.
Your question has come up, time after time –
What is it that makes them addicted to crime?
If you ever dared ask them, they’d answer as one:
‘BREAKING THE LAW IS SUCH BLOODY GOOD FUN!’
When you next go across for a birdwatching day,
You’ll see Skomer puffins a different way;
But never share doubts that they’re sweet birds, so charming –
Or you’ll be the next one they’re planning on harming!