Who's a Solid Idol? Ah, I allow... oldish idols, wildish idols, oddish idols, widish idols, laddish idols, dollish idols, who's a Solid, a Solid idol? Who's a Solid idol? Who's a Solid idol? I hiss, I diss all hollow sods, I slash, I soil, I howl, I wail. I shall shoo all shallow sods, I said who's a Solid, a Solid idol? I shall hail all Solid idols, oh I'll do a load a' shows. I'll hold slowish idols' halos. I will wash ill idols' loos. Who's a Solid idol? Solid Idols. Idols. Solid Idols.

A Tease. Jane jaunts, Jane's a tease as a nauseant unease eats us. A neat aunt jaunts unseen as a nauseant unease eats us. Jane's jaunts unseat a senate as a nauseant unease eats us. Ten-tun uneaten tunas nauseate an ant. A nauseant unease eats us! Jane's just sent a tune. Aa aa, aa aa. Jane's a tease, Jane's a Jane's a tease!

Be an Eon A bonnie bairn, a brain, an ear. A bion born on no orb near. No bane in Brian, an inner ore. Eno be no inane bore. Earn a boner in a robe, Brian. An oar or a nine iron. I bar no Eno era, no, Eno be an eon! Be an eon.

Dodecagons Dangle Along an Angle A lass and a glass and a hare and a horse. A dodo and a dragon and a rose and a garden. A gander and a goose on a long loose noose. Charles rode headlong! He chose chaos! Dodo Dodgson's loaded head also anchored Reason. Dodo Dodge no drongo, no, a scholar and a nerd and a don and a deacon. Dodo Dodge no dosser or cad, a changer and a dasher and a real old card! Dodgson does a cradlesong on a horn or organ. He does a darn good crass chess lesson, a hanger-on learns a load! He handles codes and adds ogdoads... Dodecagons dangle along an angle! Lo! A slander arose! Oh gosh, a crass ordeal! A large herd slanged and scorned and goaded: “Charles canoodles as he doodles! Does he drool on gals galore? Does he doodle sloshed on ale or caned on LSD and lager? Classed as sane or as a loon? Charles a godsend or a danger?” Dodecagons dangle along an angle! Dodgson graced a golden age, a lord adored across a land. Class and coolness and a goodness, and a schooled and regal oddness. Angels and candles do adorn an Anglo shore. A glad, lone ear on a head so sore heard an ode: “Haloed hero do ascend!” A Dodo soared o'er seas and oceans, lanes and roads.

Nice Ends Kids nick dice, skid in dikes. Sick kids die in iced dens. Snide kin sicken, snide kin sin. Kind kin send nice din dins. I'd nick Dickens' ID, Dickens inked nice ends. I'd dine in Dickens' skin, Dickens inked nice ends.

Who's the Laziest in the Land? She breathes in. Her breast broadens. There's no steadier seaborne liner than Liz. Her stern is inert, her tone is earnest. As she inhales the leaden air, one realizes she doesn't do showbiz. “When one is an isolated or reliant, elder resident... when one has had a hard, lean winter and the weather has been wet... a hot tea heartens one....”. Liz orates, no basher berates, no rebels rant or riot here. We boneheads bow or stare in awe, the Earth beholds the sober bore. The whiniest letdown, the idlest blather, the blandest blither, she drones and dithers. Don't the lowbred hate and loathe her? How's it no one here's in a lather? Is there a reason on the breadline to listen to her downbeat, desolate bleats? Then we read it in the headlines, in sleazoid tabloid and broadsheet. It's no treason not to want to hear it on the radio. Her hairdo is now rinsable, we heard it said in stereo. Who's the Laziest in the Land? Then there's her idolaters, their zealotries are bold and brazen. Able to besot a tribe, the Windsor brand is sold and blazoned on tea towels, bowls and banderoles, sweaters, tins and bandoleers, on dishware, bedrails, toenails too. I saw the head on a biro and the behind... on a wristband. What's it based on? Is it birth? What reason to relate to her? As an idol is she Solid? I heard she's rather slow and stolid. A slender bride, she twined and teased and waltzed and twirled and lit the world. Now she wanes, she's lost her zest, this Liz is not the zaniest. Who's the laziest? And she isn't whiter than snow, she's tarnished with a sin or two. It has been said in an aside: there's a shadier side to how Di died. Oh how I wish to hedonize her with absinthe and a nice sweet weed and on said weed she'd do a show to barons, earls and senior aides. She'd bare her arse to lords and nobles, stand astride a snob in tweed, debase the whole elite in one in the bawdiest strobe-lit waterbed. Who's the laziest, who's the laziest in the land? I'd sell her tosh and eternal lies. I'd share her wealth with the whole darn isle. She doesn't need an airshow here, a new horse there, another hat to wear. With what she owns we'd do a neat trade, we'd lend a load to those in debt. We'd aid the winos with no shelter, her shed alone is wider than a hotel! And as she bloats on a dozen dates and wines and dines and dozes late, does she wonder, Elizabeth Windsor, 'who's the laziest in the land?' The answer doesn't dawn on her, realities aren't realized as she is hailed as a bastion, a laster and a shrewd old bird. I don't behead her or dethrone her, slide a blade below the belt. Instead I tread on and disown her. This is how the blow is dealt. And those who snarl “her end is near”, beware the son with the bendiest ears. He need not be desirable, he's the heir it's not deniable.

The Riff Thief The deft thief tried it, third fret. If he riffed it, it'd fit. Dire, the fifth fret D he hit! He'd hide the D, he'd edit it. The fifer fifed, the frier fried, the tiffer tiffed, the riff thief riffed. The trier tried, the hider hid, the tiffer tiffed, the riff thief riffed. The diet he fed the tired herd fed their ire, fed the rift. The tired herd fired the fetid thief. “Fire the riff thief! Fire the riff thief!” The fifer fifed, the frier fried, the tiffer tiffed, the riff thief riffed. The trier tried, the hider hid, the tiffer tiffed, the riff thief riffed. I ride the tide, I dither, I drift. If I fired the riff thief, I'd differ. I'd hire Fred Frith.

On Rehearing a Song. An organiser is shearing Harrison's hair. Ringo is near, rehearsing on a snare. Ono is sharing a gag, or greasing a shoe, as her hero has his nosh. A gig soon goes on in a raging roar, a noise, a siege. Oh gosh! One eager singer goes 'ooh', one grins or goes 'ah'. A Harrison song is rare, I nag. On rehearing one on air, I hone in on his ease, his range as a singer. No sneer has arisen here or groan or snigger. A Harrison song engages as a genre ages. As Sir George sang, he shone. He is gone. His reign goes on. Go on Harrison, go on.

An Avid Hand. An idea invaded David on a hike. Dive in! Do an oaken ocean! He did. An avid hand, a voice. Each dank dike, each coy cove, each inch a hive, a haven, a code. Each hidden vine, each cone, each chink, a key. In a candid video I had, he did a naked knave in ink. And invoked a Van Dyck via a Van Eyck in an echo, in a chain. Oh, I chide and yack and yank and hoick Did vice niche in Hock ... ney? Did hedonic havoc hide in a dandy icon? Heck! I avoid deviancy and oink, in a naive vein... on a handy, can-do kiddo, an ace! No novice, and no doyen in decay. I add no dickhead advice. I convey a kind okay. An avid hand, a voice.

It's Curtains Cast as a saint? It is a strain. It rains in Ian's train, it's, it's curtains. Is Ian's art an act? Ian's rictus, Ian's airs, Ian's tics ain't satiric, ain't satiric! Ian's antics run at us, Ian's antics incur a scar. Cut! It's curtains. Ian, Ian's nuts! A star is in a rut! Cut! It's curtains.

Let's Just Jumble a Name. A ten a.m. meal: tea, buns, nuts, beans. A sun beams. Blest James tans, unbelts jeans. A lust nest, a tub. A lean male beast jabs Lena numb. Bam! An ant steals a nut. Late, James blames an L.A. jet jam. Blunt's tunes stun, seal a net sum. Seats, bums... bet a lens melts. But, at last, a snub, a stab. At least ten mean men tease, “Lame blues, man, tame at best!”, slam, “a stale tale, a jest”. Let's just jumble a name: Ban James Blunt albums!

A KING A shady skyline, an English din. An ashen gal selling ale and shandy. And a skinhead yelling slangily and insanely, as lads and ladies, all hyenas, sing snidely and inanely. Ah Dalglish! A slide and a skid, a silky skill, a slinky dink, Kenny glides and links, snaking and leaning and easily landing. His leg is aligned and, ah, a lanky lad's leading shin denies an ideal ending. Kenny hides his head in his hands. He digs in, as he is held, yanked and ankled. He's all agile design and handy angles, and...ah... he delays, and he has skied a daisy. His head hangs, he's hiding, dallying, and.. Ah! He's sneaking in, in a single dash, and an angled lash is.. in! A lead is gained and he is hailed a king. King Kenny. Dalglish! As Kenny signed his deal, I inhaled gladly. A silly, skinny kid, shaking and saying, “I like Kenny” and “Is he shy?”. I sigh. Dalglish!

A Waddler Awarded Dawdle, waddle, waddle, dawdle. Waddle, dawdle, dawdle, waddle. A drawer, Edward drew a red deer, a dead adder. Edward Lear, earl? A drawler! A lewd addler! We read Lear law: Da da Wa da da Wa da da Wa. Da da Wa da da Wa da da Wa. Da da Wa da da. Da da Wa da da. Da da Wa da da Wa da da Wa. Are we awed? Edward, a rare ear? Edward, a radar? We dread Edward, we leer! Dear dear, we erred! Lear were a Dada elder, a Dada dada. Edward led a war! Ed welded a ladder. Ed waded, Ed dared, Ed were a leader! We are, we are rewarded, a rewarded reader. We are, we are rewarded. A real deal. Lear awarded. A waddler awarded!

That Hag A hater march, the theme: that hag Mag, that tart, that tart! That era there, that rat race, that mater. Her errata grate, at a rate! Her heart a hatchet, her art a threat. Hath Margaret a regret? Retrace her career, chart her meagre care, her arch tact! React! That hag, that Margaret. Each meter at the rematch here, a race, a rage, a chatter. Trace her, charge her, reach her, tear.. that Thatch! Get her, tame her, teach her, here, attach her! That tart that Margaret! Her teeth eat tarmac. Hear them cheer, hear them cheer! Her garter a rag, her ear a mere tatter. A germ, a rat, a retch, the theatre! Margaret meet the ether! That hag, that tart, that Mag.

The Lantern Late at Night No loafer, Florence got a calling, a longing for another life. In a foreign region. Caring for an ailing legion. A calling to the frontline. I can etch Florence... toiling to not let a torn leg infect a genital. Inhaling the ethanol, either ignoring all the gore or fainting or retching. I can etch her fetching the linen in. Toiling to not let another fella lie groaning in the filth. Facing a fierce fight... entailing not failing to go on healing. To go on feeling for a frail one flatlining in the cannon fire! Or a flailing, trailing, fallen hero! Florence felt an aching for teaching. In enforcing a cleaner, ethical care. Not one for light relief, a frolic or a flirt. No one enticing her into a lifelong thing. Florence got along on not a lot, her faith alone atoning for the hell. Her giant heart elating all. Hence I hail an agile angel, I can't forget her inner force. I hear a chant, I hear a cheer. I hear one telling final encore. Go on Flo, ignite a light, the lantern late at night felt right. Go on Flo, ignite a light, the lantern late at night felt right.

We Saw a Solid Idol Die A scolder scowled, cowed a coward. A coarse crowd crowed, “Weirdo!” Wailers wailed as rowdies riled. A wise old crow cawed, “A clear case. Laws are laws. Wilde adores lads!” Ideals are sacred. O, do we care? I swear, screw wise old crows! A dire world swirled as a sad, scared soldier was soiled. Weldor, weld a sword! Decrial is war! Words derail! A wild scrawl read, “O woe! I slide so low, I ail. A deal so raw I'd wield a sword, I'd sail o'er sea, I'd ride a slow sidecar. O woe!” Oscar crawled as Oreads swore, as ladies cried, as law lords lied, as a loser Isle resold dear Oscar Wilde. We saw a solid idol die.

A Radiance. R.I.P. R.I.P. I said rip (in paradise). An epic race, an insane pace, a raciness, a paciness. Pace crispens, cripes! A scrape, a panic, a spin. R.I.P. Princess R.I.P in paradise, Princess. A princess in crisis, a princess in pain, sirens and a princess pinned in, snared inside a car in scraps in Paris. In care, aides in caps and capes and pinnies. Pincers are passed as innards are scanned, and... a princess dies. R.I.P. in paradise, R.I.P. An insane press cries in despair, an arcane prince is panned. Insiders carp and sins are aired. Spies' capers arise in pics and snaps and I discern a rancid, crap parade. A sad rap ends. R.I.P. I said rip. A radiance inspired praise and spread pride.

An Icon. Victoria. Can I voice a critique? Tear into a naive cretin? Evince a neurotic nature, or an inert, inactive icon? I can. Or I can recount a certain virtue, a nerve to conquer or unite, to venture out to ocean or equator, en route to an ornate orient. I can vaunt a cute novice, a creative veteran, or orate on a tenure. It ran on... I can even enquire into an entire era, into vice or covert erotica, or acquire an antique at an auction. I can renovate a quaint Victorian tavern, convert it into a neat venue or rent it out at a nice rate. At a canter, I can enter into trivia. I can't ever quite uncover our true Victoria. Victoria. One queen I can't quite urinate on.

A Batty Bear A tea tray, a brew. We eat a tart. -Yo bro, try a treat. A raw, bare beat! -Er, wo! Wyatt! A warty, arty retro bore! -Er, wot? We two row. A ratty war. “Rotter! Toy boy! Twat!” We retry. We retry. Yet we rate Robert rare. Bow to a tower, bow to a batty bear, a batty bear.

Easy Evil Jimmy's evil jives, Jimmy's evil is live, Jimmy's evil lives easy. Easy Jimmy evil! A slim slave is May, a slim slave is Ivy, a male slave is Sam, Jimmy's vim is evil Jimmy's evil jives, Jimmy's evil is live, Jimmy's evil lives easy. Easy Jimmy evil! A vile smile is a veil, Jimmy's vim is evil. A sly lay is Jimmy's aim, Jimmy's vim is evil. Limey Jim, slimy Jim, Jimmy's vim is evil. Lame lies save Jim, Jimmy's vim is evil! Same meal, same lie, same vim, same Jim, same lie, same vim, same Jim, same evil Evil, Evil, Evil, Evil, same Evil, Evil, Evil, Evil

Ta. Gnarl at Alan, ruin Turing. A trial, a ruling: “it ain't natural!” “Turing a girl? Tug at aunt Alan. Trail 'it' in a ring, it aint natural. Tug at Alan”. Tuning in, I rant, I nag, I rail in turn at Alan in an urn. Turing ain't a nit, aint a gnat, aint a git. Rating Alan a giant unlit. Ta Alan. I grant a rung at a lunar altar, I grunt “Turing grit, Turing grit!” at it. I grant an annual gala, I grunt “Ta Alan” at it. Ta Alan. Ta

Undress! Undular and assured, as usual, an unreal lass lands. Sea, sand, dunes, and, a rare arse. Andress leans near us. Ruder and ruder, nuder and nuder, Ursula dares. Ruder and ruder, nuder and nuder, Ursula, undress!

A Dame Vivienne made a dame? Amen. I mean, I'd've named Vivienne a dame, me. I 'ad Vivienne in mind even amid an avid media need. I'd've 'ad Dame Viv in a minivan, I'd've made Dame Vivienne mine. And men'd've envied me. Viv. A divine maiden, a diva? Na'. A dame. Dame Vivienne. Viva Vivienne.

No Shit. This hour, instill no rush. No shunt or lurch, hush! In unlit hut on hill, chill. Sit still, owlish, until, our Winston wins. No shit, no tosh, no slur. Till our Winston wins! Now run! Hit, hurt, stun! Shout, howl, hurl, shoot! Hunt, crunch, twirl, loot! Ouch! Who shot? It cut into us. I sit, worn out. Who will win this cull? Such cost, such a toll. I count lots! It's no stroll. Still, it's not lost or null or nil, till, with his iron will, our Winston wins. No shit, no tosh, no slur. Till our Winston wins! How I wish to sit in sun, not snow, to sit in inns to hunch on lunch. To sin, to lust, not turn to rust or rot in ruts I wish to clutch, to touch... cunt Whilst our Winston toils our loins turn nuts. Till I own twins, two churlish urchins, clots in cots with nits who snot, now chic it's not, it is our wont, it is our lot, I shun it not. No shit, no tosh, no slur, no! Winston won! His snout so low, his chin in tow, our rich runt Winston won.

Lion or Liar? A boy born Tony ran Albion ably, not nobly. On Blair I rant a bit: a tiny brain, a brat, a nit! I, a bony yob, I rib a lot. I riot in a torn bra! Blair on trial, no bail! Tony on an oil trail. Tony in a bar on a Libyan train. A bro to an oil baron? O Tony, no! Toil not to nail Iran, toil not. O try to tan on a briny boat to Bali, Tony. Lion or liar? Blair by air to-o-o Italy o to bray an alto latin litany. Tony a lion or only a liar? A lion in a lair or a rat in a barn? Tony a lion or only a liar? A Tory Blair or a Lib or a Lab? Tony a lion or only a liar? I try to iron a Tony yarn. Tony a lion? Nay, nay, nay! Lob Tony in a bin! Lob it in a bin! Tony a lion or only a liar? Lion or Liar?

A Sturdy Status. A Ziggy gig. Drag artists, studs, stars, sirs, suits, stags. A stray sadist. Sad, arty tarts. Ziggy starts, zigs, zags, struts, darts. A trusty guitar stirs. A druggy guy says, “try a tasty grass”. Ziggy's gig is a gas. Iggy says it's gutsy. It is as I say. Ziggy's status stays sturdy.