The Stocks

We all want it, I think, even crave it,As kids or decrepit ancients wonderingWhat venial sin has led themTo the purgatory of a buildingPosing as a home.‘It’s not fair’ could be humanity’sSwan Song as the bomb to end all bombsTurns into the sun just above our heads.A damp, cold day in the villageOf Marsden when I pass the stocks –Last used, I read, two centuries ago.‘If only’, they murmur with a sighWhen they’re sober - a shout when they’rePissed commuting from pub to pubOn the Real Ale trail which gives themLicence to be arse holes with the tribe.

Sitting with their cancelled legs in hockTo the folk who could never doubt the stocksWere their home-made substitute for theCourts of their landed betters –They wait for the rubbish and the offal,To splatter their constricted lives.On a bad day they might lose an eyeTo a man or woman blinded by the strengthThe rocks and the stocks give them.

The stocks are there for fancy now,But the simple need to feel the thrillOf the rocks hitting home –Bringing justice to an unjust worldAppals and appeals to us all.