An Ode to Common Sense

The Death of Common Sense  Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).  His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.  Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.  It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.  Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.  Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.  Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.  Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.  He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers;  I Know My Rights  I Want It Now  Someone Else Is To Blame  I'm A Victim  Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone. If you still remember him, pass this on. If not, join the majority and do nothing.

The Ballade of Cala San Vicente

                                       The Ballade of Cala San Vicente

I'm here in my darkened  glasses

And my ancient Panama hat

A'drinking hierbas and coffee

And talking of this and that.

To call us all geriatrics 

Would be going a bit too far

For we have no need of bath chairs 

When we make our dash to the bar.

We always take our siesta

For that is the custom of Spain,

But we rise long before they do

Our status we have to maintain.

We attempt to speak their language,

To the natives we are always polite,

But why must they say buenas notches

When all they mean is Good Night ?

In private we read our Kipling

But know that it would be a sin

To call the waiter 'Char wallah'

And the hall porter ' Gunga Din'.

At night we may dream of Empire

Though the dreams disperse with the day.

The Gentiles see only Majorca

Where the Chosen see Mandalay.

We pay the price for dominion

When our innards begin to ache'

And we bear the curse of King Philip

Which he directed at Drake.

At dusk I take off my glasses

And remove my Panama hat,

And sip hierbas and coffee

While talking of this and that.

An echo of days gone by, written some thirty years ago while on holiday in the beautiful resort of Cala San Vicente before the Empire became a distant memory.

J.A.L.

  

Plays and Musicals - The Little Sweep 1966 & Noye's Fludde 1967

Winter draws on

Posted on behalf of Shirl