this something I did inspired by some shorter doggerel by a friend, Johnny Dimond, which I have butchered and set to some melancholic guitar as a kind of spoken word poetry. I might try to see if I can sing it in some way next. Yes, I know it doesn’t have verses and chorus and bridges and middle eight, etc. I don’t know what the accent is but quite like it. Not exactly what you might call a pop song either.   The poem is unlike anything I have done before as I had something like Coleridge’s vision in Purlock, although sadly without quite his facility of words. The thing's about a Scotsman late 1700's who sees a rather evil man, with a press reputation like Jack the Ripper, hanging at Marble Arch and starts fantasising about his (the bad guy’s) life. He gets more and more wrapped up in his thoughts and it becomes a kind of waking dream. In an incredibly cunning and exciting use of English grammar !! the tense goes from the present (seeing him hang) to the subjunctive (?conditional/indicative?) i.e. what the guy would have been like if you met him in the wrong circumstances; to the present again as his morbid fantasy becomes "real" and present and personal to him. When near the end of his fantastic encounter, he feels that the horror might be over by the relief of death, almost at least content that he dies having known love - something the Fowl can never know - he then realises by seeing a gold and crystal locket that the "Fowl" has murdered his little son who he thought safe in a Scots fishing village. Then, heaven be praised, he realises that its a dream, possibly related to the mixture of booze and laudanum he's taking to deal with his visit to London town - after all he's just waiting for his boat to be unloaded ready to return home, and that he will see his boy again. He knows that his wife and boy like to sing "dance little fishy" as they watch him sail back into his home port, safe again...
 
Nyeah or far,
Wither or without,
The fiendish fowl
Is clean washed out.
Now swings thro' fog,
Bin Marble Arched,
Hemp n oak dog
Fowl's last march. 
He's of no mother born 
Says I with scorn,
But scabrous squeeze 
From midden spawned. 
His griping ways,
His rakish slack,
Yer would na want 
Ta turn yer back.
You would na turn
Yer back ta heem,
For sure is sure 
He'd do yer een
He'd do yer een, 
Not nice and clean,
Not with his stabber
In yer spleen.
He'd use his scythe 
Like some fowl claw,
To spread yer innards 
To the floor.
Then hed layed
Beside to listen
For last breath,
Rattlin' whistle...
love.
Heeding not,
He slakes his thirst
On yer despair,
Whisper fades
Ta hollow air, 
As soul siphons slow
Down lidless gaze,
Drawn by his poultice,
Mixed malice n rage.  
He's done his worst,
Yer pray and pray.
But, what's that?
As life's vision fades,
Cold gleam o' sweat,
Forelock glisten,
To his whoreson breast 
Clutch lighted prism,      
Ma wee boy's locket
Hangs there betide.
Betrayed by who,
I know not why.
But oh! time stops,
Stitching and traversed, 
I thanked and cursed, 
Such poppy seed belief,
Such rancid revelry awry,
Realised with infinite relief
Tonight agin I'd dance,
And with my little fishy prance.

Neah Or Far

Notes on the name:
Minj is the Mongolian word for beaver. Beavers are semi-aquatic rodents and are the only living members of the family Castoridae, which contains a single genus, Castor. Some care must be taken when using the word Minj out of context.

'Hed is 'head' without an 'a' and is rich in meaning.

The combination of minj and hed I find satisfying. 

A point of slight interest to the older folk: on hearing of Minjhed, Jimmy Page, former guitar chappie and mudshark man for Led Zep, remarked that he thought it was disgusting. The pot calls the kettle black, eh? However, I am proud that such a great artist has commented on my work, even if it's only the name...