Her poison blew the breeze away,
And pathways cloaked in piskie dust.
Children turned their hearts to ice,
And friends betrayed his trust.

He walked the cliffs of Arthur's realm,
With fear he dared not show,
He bore the weight of ancient hate,
To fight an unseen foe.

He wandered where the sirens sang,
Along the granite shore,
They sang away his silent rage,
And stilled the inner war.

The miners took him deep below,
To work the darkened vein,
They taught him to forge his soul,
To cast away the pain.

He knew the road to claim his throne,
And take back what was lost,
But stayed to help the local folk,
To warm them during the frost.

He stayed to learn the siren's songs,
And tune the miner's ore,
To mend the fractures in their clay,
Upon the Crooklets shore.

He'll never be a king again,
Nor sail across the foam,
This strange blow-in of the west,
Has claimed Bude as his home.

The staff are warm, the locals kind,
A fresh new poem from the strange lad.
With local brew, you start to unwind,
And open up about the week you've had.

No GPs here, no waiting list,
No drugs to fuel a Pharma kickback.
We pour the drinks but watch your back,
And cut you off before you crack.

More than a venue for sharing rounds,
With vinyl, DJs, and this open mic to play.
A brewery where good times abound,
With pizzas delivered by Paul from the TJ.

Don't think you face the dark alone,
There’s a pint waiting just for you.
Come back often, make this your home,
We help each other stay happy and true.

Then came the tale of Annie Moore and Isle of Tears,
A lad in Bude with hope and courage at last,
From an Isle he’d never see again for years,
A stranger with no future in the past.

Of Joan you spoke, and her gift to heal,
He thought of Watford, and how he was used,
Now to help those who called, and free to feel,
In Cornwall's kindness and no longer abused.

"Like a Bee" flew to the colourful flower,
He pledged his heart to Bude musical society,
To help the artists with his newfound power,
Their love for him made his own love a reality.

Then "Bonnie Susie Cleland" rang out clear,
He thought of Scotland's winding stream,
The McManus galleries, buried so dear,
To visit there again would be a dream.

As the midnight moon was shining bright,
You called across the ocean blue,
To ask the Meandering River's track that night -
I said "Three" ... but the truth was "Two".

I watched your steps align with every strum,
Moving to the rhythm of the bass and drum.
With natural grace, in style and soul,
You made the festive afternoon feel whole.

I stepped to the front to ask you for a dance,
You smiled and said, “Alright,” with a spirited glance.
To covers spanning every tempo and range,
Our differences dissolved as the music changed.

Two hours rushed by like seconds, the music fled,
With a silent hug, you asked for more dance instead.
I didn’t know your name, but in the fading light,
The answer I left unsaid was just... “Alright.”

I descend Thurlibeer, down the steep, Porter slope,
Through hedges and fields that are fermented with hope.
To the basins below, deep as barrels of stout,
Where the tub boats once floated, the Strange Lad steps out.

Round woods where the stream runs like ale in the glass,
I cross over bridges and smell the wet grass.
The bog is like mash, hoppy, and sweet,
With wort on my boots and fresh mud on my feet.

I follow the fence where the wild barley grows,
Past sheep and past cattle, the wind surely blows.
With Stratton on high, I say Marwenna adieu,
Tramping on dreckly for a Tribute or two.

Past Cann and the orchard, deep down in the shade,
I’m slaking the thirst while seeking a maid.
Past old cottages standing, the end is in sight,
A Proper Job waiting at The Bullers tonight.

I made it for open mic, not a moment too late,
With a poem in hand and a dark Guinness to rate.
I don't know how these verses will be received,
But the keg has been tapped... and my thirst is relieved.

You show your child's medals and accolades,
Expecting a "wow," saying "they grow so fast."
I’m drained by the system, its endless blockades,
Not knowing if time with my own will last.

You show me the video of your Christmas feast,
When I sat alone, just masking my pain,
Counting the seconds for the season to cease,
And hoping the new year brings sanity again.

You pity me, admit you don't know what to say,
So talk of the beer at Bullers, "the pub to be,"
The game that we won, the music played today,
The strange lad's poem, that original melody.

The problem isn't me, it's what you see,
You don't know how to sit and speak with me.
You simply lack the depth and empathy
To face the truth of my reality.

I counted three and jumped into the tide,
The icy water froze the panicking heart inside.
I held on fast with a cramping, aching grip,
And prayed to see a friendly fishing ship.

(chorus)

Heave lads, heave, the sea runs cold!
A story for the maid, a tale to be told!
Pull for the shore, with all your might!
We’ll see Bude for Christmas bright!

Then through the mist, a rigged tosher loomed,
Her decks all slick with mackerel, my senses doomed.
A siren’s call cut through the driving rain,
And giant hands pulled us from the watery pain.

(chorus)

Heave lads, heave, the sea runs cold!
A story for the maid, a tale to be told!
Pull for the shore, with all your might!
We’ll see Bude for Christmas bright!

Wrapped in rough blankets against the chill bone, 
Ten souls on a boat that fought the churning sea alone.
A rough hand patted my shoulder and said, “Heave now, with the rest!”
And in that pull, I faced the boy’s most difficult test.

They showed me knots and to read the spray,
And worked beside me ‘til the break of day.
The stars were hid by a blanket of grey,
With the gale at our backs, roaring all the way.

(chorus)

Heave lads, heave, the sea runs cold!
A story for the maid, a tale to be told!
Pull for the shore, with all your might!
We’ll see Bude for Christmas bright!

Then in the dawn, old Widemouth Bay appeared,
The Bude lights shone, our journey’s end so clear.
A cheer like “Ho! Ho! Ho!” rose up from every throat,
Alive and well within that little boat.

(chorus)

So sing it out, lads, the sea ran cold!
A story for the maid, a tale to be told!
We’ve won the shore, with all our might!
We’re home in Bude for Christmas alright!

At the Bude Social Club, the festive vibe was bright,
Where every blow in received a friendly spotlight.
With true bluegrass tunes and a bingo-style jingle,
The Clotted Cream Trio made the whole TJ tingle.

A new open mic debuted with a folking sound,
With Ben at the Howl, spreading cheer all around.
Then alt-rock from The Ex-Presidents, with a shiver and a shake,
A performance to make the whole Preston Gate quake!

An Irish night started with Harry and his friends,
Where the barrels weren’t dry and the stout never ends.
Then handsome Lil Jim, a one-man delight,
Won us all over twice at the gig on that night.

The Howlin’ rhythm & blues from Crooklets Cafe,
Made even the shyest legs get up and play.
And on Sunday, with James Dixon singing so near,
Pulled Santa from his sleigh just to lend him an ear.

On Monday, the Barrel Tappers led the carols bright,
With fiddles and elfy riddles to delight us that night.
Then Tuesday, the choir at Crooklets sang with all their heart,
A concert featuring the strange lad in a low covert.

Then Wednesday brought funk, with soul and reggae,
From Ross Kelly, a front man who made the room sway.
Then Christmas Day dawned for the debut cold dip,
With a steaming mug of Rosie’s hot chocolate to sip.

So thank you to Bude for the warmth of your hands,
For welcoming a stranger to these joyful lands.
You showed me the meaning, singing loud and clear,
Of peace and goodwill for the coming New Year.

Help people help people;
Help people helping people;
Help people help people.

I walked the borders, knew the salt of tears,
Then found healing from hands that calmed fears,
The newly healed now lifts the bowed-down head,
Where hurt weeds grew, compassion blooms instead.

Help people help people;
Help people helping people;
Help people help people.

Let the devil stand confused by our creative ways,
We weave these couplets into music that unites,
The truth is not cowards washing hands of crimes,
But kindness reaching roof to roof across divides.

Help people help people;
Help people helping people;
Help people help people.

So let the old clichés fall from every tree,
No longer trapped by what we used to be,
But be the proof that kindness will rewrite our fate,
Help people help people before it is too late.

Help people help people;
Help people helping people;
Help people help people.

You’ll see the ghosts of my failures,
The daemons slipping past,
The crooks in your daily clicks,
From states with corrupted politics.

Ignorance is bliss, I say,
So don’t you meet my gaze.
With just a laptop for a shield,
I’m always losing on the field.

Our radio domes are just pointless,
Our cyber weapons are useless,
I’m frightened and always uncertain,
Alone with my screams in vain.

Ignorance is bliss, I say,
You scroll, and tap, and laugh,
Unaware of the rats in your cellar,
While free to dream of empires.

Your simple world is what I save,
As a nomad on a digital wave.
I’m your hated neighbour in a cell,
The truth is one thing I can’t tell.

Ignorance is bliss, I say,
You ask where all the promises have gone.
I’m stuck in a mess someone laid upon,
With great responsibility, without power to carry on.

So stay ignorant, and stay safe,
It’s the only tips I have.
As I eat the tranquilliser unable to breathe,
The anger in my tired eyes starts to seethe.

Your October’s fest calls with revelry’s fire,
Its dancing flames awakening desire.
When words I’ve held can now be told,
I’ll walk this path through rain and cold.

In the glass, though, a stranger stares
Through Friday eyes that plant snares.
A hollow man in unfit clothes,
The untold Saturday rust, the tear that flows
And pulls me back to the street’s cold,
A story marred, with scenes untold.
This bright Sunday is just a lie,
Another ghostly night I must get by.