FOLK SONG FOR THOMAS SPENCE
(1750-1814)
Down by the old Quayside,
I heard a young man cry,
among the nets and ships he made his way.
As the keelboats buzzed along,
he sang a seagull’s song;
he cried out for the Rights of you and me.
Oh lads, that man was Thomas Spence,
he gave up all his life
just to be free.
Up and down the cobbled Side,
struggling on through the Broad Chare,
he shouted out his wares
for you and me.
Oh lads, you should have seen him gan,
he was a man the likes you rarely see.
With a pamphlet in his hand,
and a poem at his command,
he haunts the Quayside still
and his words sing.
His folks they both were Scots,
sold socks and fishing nets,
through the Fog on the Tyne they plied their trade.
In this theatre of life,
the crying and the strife,
they tried to be decent and be strong.
Oh lads, that man was Thomas Spence,
he gave up all his life
just to be free.
Up and down the cobbled Side,
struggling on through the Broad Chare,
he shouted out his wares
for you and me.
Oh lads, you should have seen him gan,
he was a man the likes you rarely see.
With a pamphlet in his hand,
and a poem at his command,
he haunts the Quayside still
and his words sing.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
THE HIVE OF LIBERTY
(AFTER THE NAME OF THOMAS SPENCE’S BOOKSHOP AT 8 LITTLE TURNSTILE, HOLBORN)
I am a small and humble man,
my body frail and broken.
I strive to do the best I can.
I spend my life on tokens.
I traipse through Holborn all alone,
hawking crazy notions.
I am the lonely people’s friend.
I live on schemes and potions.
For, in my heart and in my mind,
ideas swarm right through me.
Yes, in this Hive of Liberty,
my words just flow ike wine,
my words just flow like wine.
I am a teeming worker bee.
My dignity is working.
My restless thoughts swell like the sea.
My fantasies I’m stoking.
There is a rebel inside me,
a sting about to strike.
I hawk my works around the street.
I put the world to rights.
For, in my heart and in my mind,
ideas swarm right through me.
Yes, in this Hive of Liberty,
my words just flow like wine,
my words just flow like wine.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
PIGS’ MEAT
“Learning will be cast into the mire and trodden down under the hoofs of a swinish multitude.” (from Edmund Burke’s ‘Reflections on the Revolution in France’)
We are the swinish multitude,
Who feed off the Loose Meat,
Our brains are bacon,
Our balls pork-chops,
We honk instead of speak.
We’re pigs’ meat,
Pigs' meat,
We wallow in our muck.
Our snouts deep in the stinking trough,
We don’t give a toss.
Pigs’ meat,
Pigs’ meat,
We riot in the street.
Pigs’ meat,
Pigs’ meat,
We piss on the elite.
We are the swinish multitude,
With sties that blind our eyes.
No sense of direction,
Just one big erection,
We bonk instead of think.
We’re pigs’ meat,
Pigs’ meat,
We wallow in our muck.
Our snouts deep in the stinking trough,
We don’t give a toss.
Pigs’ meat,
Pigs’ meat,
We riot in the street.
Pigs’ meat,
Pigs’ meat,
We piss on the Elite.
We are the swinish multitude,
Incapable of speeches,
We drink royal blood,
We eat the rich,
We fart in Halls of Art.
We’re pigs’ meat,
Pigs’ meat,
We wallow in our muck.
Our snots deep in the stinking trough,
We don’t give a toss.
Pigs’ meat,
Pigs’ meat,
We riot in the street.
Pigs’ meat,
Pigs’ meat,
We piss on the Elilte.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
(from the music-theatre piece ‘Pigs'Meat’ written for Bruvvers Theatre Company)
