It's that time of year
'Tis the season to be jolly
The annual event to...
Go off your trolley.
Spending money you haven't got
Which could clear the national debt
Wasting enough food to feed the homeless
Raise your glass..now we're set.
It's the biggest con trick
Since the Con-Dems came to power
No wonder people misunderstand me
Mistake my indifference for a glower.
You've probably guessed
I think christmas is shite
Offer me the bribe of free food
And I won't even bite.
It wouldn't matter if I was rich
I'm rather more poor but...
If I were a millionaire
I'd still lock myself behind my front door.
They'd love me to come round
The family all in one place
But then I apparently make them uneasy
So they say, but not to my face.
I'm happy with DVDs from the library
A chance to put up my feet
None of that commercial quasi-religous clap-trap
The way I do it suits me neat.
It's not that I don't love my brothers & sisters
Take it as read that I do
I'm just sick of feeling an outsider
At this christmas charade of a zoo.
Despite that I love my family
More than I might admit
If only they'd respect me
And accept I think christmas is shit.
Show off your tinsel tree
Sparkling candles and lights
Christmas paper over the cracks
Hope to avoid family fights.
Just come and pop round
Free food is the deal
As if I'll suddenly enjoy christmas
For the price of a nice meal.
They say it's all about families
And making everyone happy
Totally ignoring the fact
It makes me feel so crappy.
Im fory eight years old now
Surely it can't be hard
To work it all out
That I think it's a charade.
I just wish people would respect
I'm happy home alone
Content in personal and private
Christmas free zone.
(This is something I wrote as I think christmas is a total waste of time, & I hate the 'pretend' 'be nice' false jollity that surrounds it!)
Monday 15 December 2014
Sunday 14 December 2014
"Farewell Jezebel"
They say poetry is depressing
None more so than tonight
I've just done my first feature
Which was a real delight.
A couple of friends came up from Kent
They wanted to hear what I read
But now I've just got a text
To hear his beloved dog is dead.
I was on such a high
Now my spirit's hit the floor
Can't begin to contemplate his shock
After his key turned in the door.
It was a dog he rescued
Beaten in the street
'Let her down' by going to poetry
Now lying dead at his feet.
I hope he doesn't blame himself
For not being there at the end
What thoughts are going through his head
I can't begin to comprehend.
Truth is he loves his animals
More than any bloke I know
To lose his darling Jezebel
Will be such a blow.
But think of the love you gave her
When you saved her from strife
Ending all that cruelty
And gave her a new life.
Take comfort from the fact your a good bloke
Who offered her a second chance
A mate I'm proud to have as a friend
Who saved her without a glance.
That's what makes you special
The fact you couldn't walk by
Hold your head up shed your tears
For tonight you deserve to cry.
Dulwich Poet 14th December 2014
(I was buzzing last night, having done my first ever 'feature set' at a poetry night, up in central London. I was well pleased that two mates of mine had come up from Kent to listen to me, even though they're 'not into poetry'. As I sat on the late night bus home I got a text from Tony, he'd got home to Chatham & his gorgeous pet dog Jezebel had died. A dog he rescued from someone beating it in the street, a few years ago. This poem is for him and Jezebel...)
None more so than tonight
I've just done my first feature
Which was a real delight.
A couple of friends came up from Kent
They wanted to hear what I read
But now I've just got a text
To hear his beloved dog is dead.
I was on such a high
Now my spirit's hit the floor
Can't begin to contemplate his shock
After his key turned in the door.
It was a dog he rescued
Beaten in the street
'Let her down' by going to poetry
Now lying dead at his feet.
I hope he doesn't blame himself
For not being there at the end
What thoughts are going through his head
I can't begin to comprehend.
Truth is he loves his animals
More than any bloke I know
To lose his darling Jezebel
Will be such a blow.
But think of the love you gave her
When you saved her from strife
Ending all that cruelty
And gave her a new life.
Take comfort from the fact your a good bloke
Who offered her a second chance
A mate I'm proud to have as a friend
Who saved her without a glance.
That's what makes you special
The fact you couldn't walk by
Hold your head up shed your tears
For tonight you deserve to cry.
Dulwich Poet 14th December 2014
(I was buzzing last night, having done my first ever 'feature set' at a poetry night, up in central London. I was well pleased that two mates of mine had come up from Kent to listen to me, even though they're 'not into poetry'. As I sat on the late night bus home I got a text from Tony, he'd got home to Chatham & his gorgeous pet dog Jezebel had died. A dog he rescued from someone beating it in the street, a few years ago. This poem is for him and Jezebel...)
Saturday 13 December 2014
"Tonight's The Night"
It's hardly a life changing moment
Everything will be the same
Is this what Warhol meant
When he talked about 15 minutes of fame?
It's taken well over a year to get here
Lots of learning at Open Mic
Never felt like a 'poetry apprenticeship'
It's just something I like.
I can't pretend I'm a real 'proper poet'
Even though I suppose that's what I am
And if anyyone thinks that's kinda weird
Well I don't really give a damn.
Tonight's my first ever feature set
Who knows it could be my last
I suspect it's like playing in the Cup Final
It will flash by so fast.
Sat on the train to work
I've got butterflies inside
But I know tonight I'll do ok
Something to look back on with pride.
I realise it's not a huge gig
Featuring at 'Palaform 1'
But for an ordinary bloke like me it's MASSIVE
When all is said and done.
I'm not hoping for much
Some applause and a bit of laugh
Giving me and the audience pleasure
While wearing my Dulwich Hamlet scarf.
Dulwich Poet 13th December 2014
(I scribbled this down on the train to work this morning. Tonight I am going to the 'Platform 1 Poetry' evening, which is monthly, at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden. I have done several five minute Open Mic slots there in the past. Tonight I a 'feature poet', for the first time, having my name on the bill, and getting fifteen minutes to read!)
Everything will be the same
Is this what Warhol meant
When he talked about 15 minutes of fame?
It's taken well over a year to get here
Lots of learning at Open Mic
Never felt like a 'poetry apprenticeship'
It's just something I like.
I can't pretend I'm a real 'proper poet'
Even though I suppose that's what I am
And if anyyone thinks that's kinda weird
Well I don't really give a damn.
Tonight's my first ever feature set
Who knows it could be my last
I suspect it's like playing in the Cup Final
It will flash by so fast.
Sat on the train to work
I've got butterflies inside
But I know tonight I'll do ok
Something to look back on with pride.
I realise it's not a huge gig
Featuring at 'Palaform 1'
But for an ordinary bloke like me it's MASSIVE
When all is said and done.
I'm not hoping for much
Some applause and a bit of laugh
Giving me and the audience pleasure
While wearing my Dulwich Hamlet scarf.
Dulwich Poet 13th December 2014
(I scribbled this down on the train to work this morning. Tonight I am going to the 'Platform 1 Poetry' evening, which is monthly, at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden. I have done several five minute Open Mic slots there in the past. Tonight I a 'feature poet', for the first time, having my name on the bill, and getting fifteen minutes to read!)
Friday 12 December 2014
"500 not out..." or "Ooh, fucking hell!"
I've been called some strange things
Like an 'urban Pam Ayres'
Somehow that's not quite true
Not that anyone cares.
I'm just that nondescript stranger
Who writes to kill time on a train
Even if it's the same old stuff
Again and again and again.
I'm an ordinary working class bloke
Trying to make of thoughts in my head
Not sure if that's what I achieve
So you get all this instead.
When I started scribbling at the start of the year
I had no idea what I meant to achieve
My personal bar wasn't set high
But in myself I now believe.
Reading in front of twenty people
Even thirty, forty or more
I'd never claim to be any good
But I know I can hold a floor.
I'm not the world's best educated
My 'O' Level count was one
I couldn't tell you a sonnet from a couplet
I simply write for fun.
I've been described as 'political'
An 'angry man' and worse
Truth is I'm a simple working class poet
Expressing himself in verse.
The first time I went to the Poetry Cafe
I had a million and one fears
And just my luck being a sober alkie
I couldn't hide behind some beers.
As I tiptoed down those rickety steps
I felt I had a mountain to climb
But as soon as I got behind that microphone
I knew this was my time.
For the last year or two I've been learning
Is there such a thing as a poetry craft?
I still sometimes can't believe it
As I shared people have laughed!
These are really cleaver people
Who've got 'A' Levels & Degrees under their hat
I'm just a South London boy called Mishi
Who grew up in a Council flat!
I'm not sure where this is going
So there's only one thing left to say
A big thank you to all who encouraged
And made me the poet I am today!
Dulwich Poet 12th December 2014
(This is, I have no idea how, the 500th poem I done since I started writing them in January last year. It is also the day before I do my first ever 'feature' at a poetry night, at Platform 1, at the Poetry Cafe, a really good night, where I have enjoyed several Open Mic spots in the past.)
Like an 'urban Pam Ayres'
Somehow that's not quite true
Not that anyone cares.
I'm just that nondescript stranger
Who writes to kill time on a train
Even if it's the same old stuff
Again and again and again.
I'm an ordinary working class bloke
Trying to make of thoughts in my head
Not sure if that's what I achieve
So you get all this instead.
When I started scribbling at the start of the year
I had no idea what I meant to achieve
My personal bar wasn't set high
But in myself I now believe.
Reading in front of twenty people
Even thirty, forty or more
I'd never claim to be any good
But I know I can hold a floor.
I'm not the world's best educated
My 'O' Level count was one
I couldn't tell you a sonnet from a couplet
I simply write for fun.
I've been described as 'political'
An 'angry man' and worse
Truth is I'm a simple working class poet
Expressing himself in verse.
The first time I went to the Poetry Cafe
I had a million and one fears
And just my luck being a sober alkie
I couldn't hide behind some beers.
As I tiptoed down those rickety steps
I felt I had a mountain to climb
But as soon as I got behind that microphone
I knew this was my time.
For the last year or two I've been learning
Is there such a thing as a poetry craft?
I still sometimes can't believe it
As I shared people have laughed!
These are really cleaver people
Who've got 'A' Levels & Degrees under their hat
I'm just a South London boy called Mishi
Who grew up in a Council flat!
I'm not sure where this is going
So there's only one thing left to say
A big thank you to all who encouraged
And made me the poet I am today!
Dulwich Poet 12th December 2014
(This is, I have no idea how, the 500th poem I done since I started writing them in January last year. It is also the day before I do my first ever 'feature' at a poetry night, at Platform 1, at the Poetry Cafe, a really good night, where I have enjoyed several Open Mic spots in the past.)
Wednesday 10 December 2014
"True Colours"
The man who makes out he's decent
Holding court on L.B.C.
The perfect foil for Red Ken
Mr. Respectability.
Until you showed your true colours
On that taxi ride back home
Your smug superior manners
And the real you was shown.
Shoting, screaming, swearing
As if your cabbie was a piece of shit
Not realising you're the bigger turd
A typical upper class Tory twit.
To make out it was down to drink
You've really got some front
Do you really think we'll fall for that
You arrogant Tory cunt!
He makes out he understand football
But he is such a prick
He made out he was a Fulham fan
But soon did that mving to Chelsea bandwagon trick.
Recorded by a cabbie
Calling him all the names under the sun
How the mighty have fallen
The former Minister of Fun.
Turns out he's not just a stuck up toff
But a racist to make it worse
But every cloud has a silver lining
Cos it made me write this verse.
He had a pop at his Polish doorman
At his posh pad in St Katherine's Dock
Do you really need any more evidence
That the bloke's a total cock!
Even though they're different people
Mellor And Farage appear to be the same
Pretending to be men of the people
While pointing their posh finger of blame.
He makes out he doesn't like UKIP
But he'd be perfect for a defection
Then it would of our turn to scream
'Stick it up your Hacienda'
As he loses another General Election.
Dulwich Poet 10th December 2014
(This is about former Conservative politician, turned radio presenter, David Mellor, who recently drunkenly abused a taxi driver, on the way home from a bash at Buckingham Palace)
Holding court on L.B.C.
The perfect foil for Red Ken
Mr. Respectability.
Until you showed your true colours
On that taxi ride back home
Your smug superior manners
And the real you was shown.
Shoting, screaming, swearing
As if your cabbie was a piece of shit
Not realising you're the bigger turd
A typical upper class Tory twit.
To make out it was down to drink
You've really got some front
Do you really think we'll fall for that
You arrogant Tory cunt!
He makes out he understand football
But he is such a prick
He made out he was a Fulham fan
But soon did that mving to Chelsea bandwagon trick.
Recorded by a cabbie
Calling him all the names under the sun
How the mighty have fallen
The former Minister of Fun.
Turns out he's not just a stuck up toff
But a racist to make it worse
But every cloud has a silver lining
Cos it made me write this verse.
He had a pop at his Polish doorman
At his posh pad in St Katherine's Dock
Do you really need any more evidence
That the bloke's a total cock!
Even though they're different people
Mellor And Farage appear to be the same
Pretending to be men of the people
While pointing their posh finger of blame.
He makes out he doesn't like UKIP
But he'd be perfect for a defection
Then it would of our turn to scream
'Stick it up your Hacienda'
As he loses another General Election.
Dulwich Poet 10th December 2014
(This is about former Conservative politician, turned radio presenter, David Mellor, who recently drunkenly abused a taxi driver, on the way home from a bash at Buckingham Palace)
Tuesday 9 December 2014
"Charity Begins At Home"
I'm on my way to work
Come out of the Overground
There's no way you will believe
What I have just found.
I went through the barrier
Getting off at Surrey Quays
Or going by its proper name
Surrey Docks, if you please.
I've nothing against charity
As long as it's for a good cause
Went to grab a coin from my pocket
And then I had to pause.
'Bethnal Green Tube Disaster'
During an air raid in the War
Your East End Cockney sparrers' crushed
Crumbled on the staircase and the floor.
It's not the cause I object to
Simply the location
You're the wrong side of the River
This is a South London station.
Pay for your own memorial
You tight East End gits
Pretedning to be chirpy and caring
Until it comes to paying for your Blitz.
Why not go begging to your royalty
They've got a bob or two
Descendants of the dear Queen Mum
Who said she felt like one of you.
When a bomb fell on Buck House
She could lookthe East End the eye
What about Bermondsey, Camberwell & Peckham
That was our fucking cry!
Now I'm not defending Hitler
That clearly wouldn't be right
But the only thing he did half honourable
Was to to bomb east London out of sight.
The only reason I'd contribute to
The memorial to Bethnal Green's dead
Was to remind me lots were West Ham fans
Making it worth giving you my bread!
Dulwich Poet 9th December 2014
(I was surprised to get off the train this morning and seeing bucket collectors for a memorial at Bethnal Green station, where 173 people where crushed in a rush to get into an air raid shelter, in March 1943. The appeal was set up in 2007, and they're still collecting. I have no problem with the memorial, I just didn't like the fact that they had 'encroached' south of the river!)
Come out of the Overground
There's no way you will believe
What I have just found.
I went through the barrier
Getting off at Surrey Quays
Or going by its proper name
Surrey Docks, if you please.
I've nothing against charity
As long as it's for a good cause
Went to grab a coin from my pocket
And then I had to pause.
'Bethnal Green Tube Disaster'
During an air raid in the War
Your East End Cockney sparrers' crushed
Crumbled on the staircase and the floor.
It's not the cause I object to
Simply the location
You're the wrong side of the River
This is a South London station.
Pay for your own memorial
You tight East End gits
Pretedning to be chirpy and caring
Until it comes to paying for your Blitz.
Why not go begging to your royalty
They've got a bob or two
Descendants of the dear Queen Mum
Who said she felt like one of you.
When a bomb fell on Buck House
She could lookthe East End the eye
What about Bermondsey, Camberwell & Peckham
That was our fucking cry!
Now I'm not defending Hitler
That clearly wouldn't be right
But the only thing he did half honourable
Was to to bomb east London out of sight.
The only reason I'd contribute to
The memorial to Bethnal Green's dead
Was to remind me lots were West Ham fans
Making it worth giving you my bread!
Dulwich Poet 9th December 2014
(I was surprised to get off the train this morning and seeing bucket collectors for a memorial at Bethnal Green station, where 173 people where crushed in a rush to get into an air raid shelter, in March 1943. The appeal was set up in 2007, and they're still collecting. I have no problem with the memorial, I just didn't like the fact that they had 'encroached' south of the river!)
Monday 8 December 2014
"Frankie Boy"
It seems like centuries ago
Way before my time
When Frankie Fraser ruled the roost
The hardman of gangland crime.
But was he really evil
Crazy with the pliers?
Call me old fashioned if you like
I reckon the Old Bill were fucking liars!
I'm not say he wasn't a nasty bastard
If you'll excuse my French
But he didn't deserve the treatment he got
From the vindictive beaks on the bench.
He might have hurt some people
But you got what you deserve
If you were to rob off your own
It was a short sharp learning curve.
Truth is he was always brighter
Than those East End upstarts The Krays
And he was a caring bloke, the family man
Right up to his sying days.
He ruled the roost dahn the Walworth Road
Proudly marching up and down
Perched invisible on his head
That gangster royalty crown.
So what if he was a villian
Who could have nasty streak
I reckon he had more integrity than the coppers
Who put him up before the beak.
If there's such a place as heaven
I hope you Rest In Peace
You'll soon be back in business
With plenty of gullible christians to fleece.
Dulwich Poet 8th November 2014
(Lifelong 'career criminal' 'Mad' Frankie Fraser died last week, aged ninety. He was a working class legend, from my area of South London. I wrote this after I'd posted a general RIP message on my Facebook page, and a few mates responded with the 'good riddance to him' type of thing.)
Way before my time
When Frankie Fraser ruled the roost
The hardman of gangland crime.
But was he really evil
Crazy with the pliers?
Call me old fashioned if you like
I reckon the Old Bill were fucking liars!
I'm not say he wasn't a nasty bastard
If you'll excuse my French
But he didn't deserve the treatment he got
From the vindictive beaks on the bench.
He might have hurt some people
But you got what you deserve
If you were to rob off your own
It was a short sharp learning curve.
Truth is he was always brighter
Than those East End upstarts The Krays
And he was a caring bloke, the family man
Right up to his sying days.
He ruled the roost dahn the Walworth Road
Proudly marching up and down
Perched invisible on his head
That gangster royalty crown.
So what if he was a villian
Who could have nasty streak
I reckon he had more integrity than the coppers
Who put him up before the beak.
If there's such a place as heaven
I hope you Rest In Peace
You'll soon be back in business
With plenty of gullible christians to fleece.
Dulwich Poet 8th November 2014
(Lifelong 'career criminal' 'Mad' Frankie Fraser died last week, aged ninety. He was a working class legend, from my area of South London. I wrote this after I'd posted a general RIP message on my Facebook page, and a few mates responded with the 'good riddance to him' type of thing.)
Saturday 22 November 2014
"Post Match Chill"
I'm in a pub full of Dulwich fans
And I'm really bored to tears
We're here to watch the football
And knock back a few beers.
Well all apart from me
Got to stick to the soft drink
I don't need alcohol for my buzz
I've got my boys in Blue and Pink.
For my heroes Dulwich Hamlet
Have just won at Harrow Borough
Doing so quite professionally
Three one being rather thorough.
It's always nice to socialise
A group of us in the pub
But truth be told I don't watch telly football
And therein lies the rub.
I popped out to the local shop
Bought my Lottery to fuel the dream
Just because I love my football
Things aren't what they seem.
If I was rich I'd dip into top flight
But not on my current wage
I'm not totally against the Premiership
But high costs make me rage.
It's Arsenal against Man. United
I dread to think the price
If I could get to a live game
I wouldn't need to think twice.
Watching this match on the telly
It's not the same as being there
No matter the glamour of Premier League
If it's on the box I don't care.
You think you're oh so loyal
As you sit there nursing your half
Without any dream of going to the ground
You're really having a laugh.
Content to sit on the sofa
Down your local boozer
Never in a hundred years a football fan
You're such fake football loser!
You've never known the magic of the terrace
Bouncing as one up and down
As you spout your pub talk nonsense
Articulating like a clown.
I'd rather watch local county league
Down at the nearest park
Than get worked up by televised fantasy
Where the contrast couldn't be more stark.
Give me the honest graft of non-league
Over millionaire prima-donnas anyday
Seeing it 'live' on the box
Can't compare with Harrow Borough away
So I'll sit here chilling out writing this poem
Rather than watch this armchair caper
Warming to the contemplation
Of the report in tomorrow's 'Non League Paper'.
Dulwich Poet 22nd November 2014
(I wrote this in a pub, with a group of fellow Dulwich Hamlet fans, after having seen The Hamlet win 3-1 at Harrow Borough. This isn't about them, it's about my lack of interest in televised football, and my distain for so many people, who have no interest in ever going to a match,as opposed to those who can't afford to, having been priced ou] but are football experts in pubs. Arsenal versus Manchester United was a 5.30pm kick off. )
And I'm really bored to tears
We're here to watch the football
And knock back a few beers.
Well all apart from me
Got to stick to the soft drink
I don't need alcohol for my buzz
I've got my boys in Blue and Pink.
For my heroes Dulwich Hamlet
Have just won at Harrow Borough
Doing so quite professionally
Three one being rather thorough.
It's always nice to socialise
A group of us in the pub
But truth be told I don't watch telly football
And therein lies the rub.
I popped out to the local shop
Bought my Lottery to fuel the dream
Just because I love my football
Things aren't what they seem.
If I was rich I'd dip into top flight
But not on my current wage
I'm not totally against the Premiership
But high costs make me rage.
It's Arsenal against Man. United
I dread to think the price
If I could get to a live game
I wouldn't need to think twice.
Watching this match on the telly
It's not the same as being there
No matter the glamour of Premier League
If it's on the box I don't care.
You think you're oh so loyal
As you sit there nursing your half
Without any dream of going to the ground
You're really having a laugh.
Content to sit on the sofa
Down your local boozer
Never in a hundred years a football fan
You're such fake football loser!
You've never known the magic of the terrace
Bouncing as one up and down
As you spout your pub talk nonsense
Articulating like a clown.
I'd rather watch local county league
Down at the nearest park
Than get worked up by televised fantasy
Where the contrast couldn't be more stark.
Give me the honest graft of non-league
Over millionaire prima-donnas anyday
Seeing it 'live' on the box
Can't compare with Harrow Borough away
So I'll sit here chilling out writing this poem
Rather than watch this armchair caper
Warming to the contemplation
Of the report in tomorrow's 'Non League Paper'.
Dulwich Poet 22nd November 2014
(I wrote this in a pub, with a group of fellow Dulwich Hamlet fans, after having seen The Hamlet win 3-1 at Harrow Borough. This isn't about them, it's about my lack of interest in televised football, and my distain for so many people, who have no interest in ever going to a match,as opposed to those who can't afford to, having been priced ou] but are football experts in pubs. Arsenal versus Manchester United was a 5.30pm kick off. )
"Reality Friends"
Ged the Giraffe's a blow-up
I know he's 'only a toy'
But at least he's a real mate
Dulwich Hamlet man and boy.
Then along came two cats
Who want to befriend me cos of their name
Yet they've never been to Champion Hill
Have they really got no shame?
Do you think being called Gavin Rose-Desmond
Will make me loved up and smitten?
At the end of the day you're just a moggie
And I've never been into cuddly kitten.
I've nothing against pussy
Only it's not for me
So please stop requesting
And listen to this Facebook plea:
I don't mind I've not met you
I'm happy to look and chat
But we can't have a keyboard rabbit
'Cos you're just a fucking cat!
Dulwich Poet 22nd November 2014
(This is about a Facebook friendship 'request' from two of my Dulwich Hamlet supporting friends cats! I am a FB friend with their inflatable giraffe, Ged...but Ged goes to games!)
I know he's 'only a toy'
But at least he's a real mate
Dulwich Hamlet man and boy.
Then along came two cats
Who want to befriend me cos of their name
Yet they've never been to Champion Hill
Have they really got no shame?
Do you think being called Gavin Rose-Desmond
Will make me loved up and smitten?
At the end of the day you're just a moggie
And I've never been into cuddly kitten.
I've nothing against pussy
Only it's not for me
So please stop requesting
And listen to this Facebook plea:
I don't mind I've not met you
I'm happy to look and chat
But we can't have a keyboard rabbit
'Cos you're just a fucking cat!
Dulwich Poet 22nd November 2014
(This is about a Facebook friendship 'request' from two of my Dulwich Hamlet supporting friends cats! I am a FB friend with their inflatable giraffe, Ged...but Ged goes to games!)
Wednesday 19 November 2014
"Time To Gloat"
We like to be friends and neighbours
But underneath you're full of hate
Oh you got to feel sorry for Scotland
They had everything on a plate.
But you blew your chance of independence
When you voted 'No' to stay
Now you'll forever be our
Downtrodden part of the U.K.
Last night you could have gone back to dream world
Pretending you're the best
But you couldn't beat our average football team
Hardly the toughest test.
No matter how bad we are
We're not as shit as you
All your pretence of being superior
Went flushing down the Celtic Park loo.
Our overpaid big time Charlies
Overwhelmed the tame Bravehearts in your shirt
You might laugh it off as a friendly
But deep down it must have hurt.
How does it feel to be roundly beaten
By the run-of-the mill Three Lions on our chest
Our least hyped up crop for generations
And still you're second best!
I think by now I've made my point
And I won't rub it in anymore
It just payback time for your digs
Och aye, you know the score.
On the condition next time I go up to Glasgow
I don't have to put up with your anti-English jokes
Cos underneath we're actually all the same
A bunch of half-decent blokes.
Dulwich Poet 19th November 2014
(I wrote this, only partly tongue-in-cheek, the day after England beat Scotland in a friendly match, which had been hyped up as a 'battle' by their old players & the press. All too easy!)
But underneath you're full of hate
Oh you got to feel sorry for Scotland
They had everything on a plate.
But you blew your chance of independence
When you voted 'No' to stay
Now you'll forever be our
Downtrodden part of the U.K.
Last night you could have gone back to dream world
Pretending you're the best
But you couldn't beat our average football team
Hardly the toughest test.
No matter how bad we are
We're not as shit as you
All your pretence of being superior
Went flushing down the Celtic Park loo.
Our overpaid big time Charlies
Overwhelmed the tame Bravehearts in your shirt
You might laugh it off as a friendly
But deep down it must have hurt.
How does it feel to be roundly beaten
By the run-of-the mill Three Lions on our chest
Our least hyped up crop for generations
And still you're second best!
I think by now I've made my point
And I won't rub it in anymore
It just payback time for your digs
Och aye, you know the score.
On the condition next time I go up to Glasgow
I don't have to put up with your anti-English jokes
Cos underneath we're actually all the same
A bunch of half-decent blokes.
Dulwich Poet 19th November 2014
(I wrote this, only partly tongue-in-cheek, the day after England beat Scotland in a friendly match, which had been hyped up as a 'battle' by their old players & the press. All too easy!)
Tuesday 18 November 2014
"Out of my Comfort Zone"
I don't quite feel uneasy
But I'm well out of place
Arriving a little too early
Desperate for a friendly poetry face.
'The Verge' bar in Shoreditch
Definately not my cup of tea
A place whose doors I'd never darken
Not the sort of bar for me.
To make it worse I don't drink
Dunno if that makes me a loser
But even though I'd stay sober
I'd be more at home in a traditional
Back street boozer.
I should've done my 'usual'
And gone to 'Poetry Unplugged' up town
Instead of sitting in this poncy gaff
Winding myself up with a frown.
I'm sure once it all starts
I'll be gein to feel ok
As I'm growing to love poetry
Morning, night and day.
Could it be my preconception
Of poetry being for the educated crowd
Time for me to ignore that
And plough on unbowed.
Turns out my worries were over nothing
They seemed to really enjoy my two
About time I stopped judging people
If I'm going to see this poetry through.
I'm now at that stage of performing
Where I genuinely appreciate what others think
The fact they seem to like me
Leaves me tickled pink.
As the evening wore on
I even got used to the bar
You can't beat a good round of applause
To make you feel like a star!
I know I'll never be able to
But I need to stop hating the middle class
I'm not saying they're 'all' decent
But I'm talking half out of my arse.
Because if they can stop and listen
And enjoy what I have to say
Surely I can do the decent thing-
Do the same and meet halfway.
Dulwich Poet 18th November 2014
( I went to 'Spoken', a spoken word & music night, in Shoreditch, on the corner of Brick Lane. It was in a bar I would never go into, as it's not my type of place. Perhaps this poem was about my nervousness & insecurity at being in such a bar, but once the poetry started I calmed down and enjoyed the evening.)
But I'm well out of place
Arriving a little too early
Desperate for a friendly poetry face.
'The Verge' bar in Shoreditch
Definately not my cup of tea
A place whose doors I'd never darken
Not the sort of bar for me.
To make it worse I don't drink
Dunno if that makes me a loser
But even though I'd stay sober
I'd be more at home in a traditional
Back street boozer.
I should've done my 'usual'
And gone to 'Poetry Unplugged' up town
Instead of sitting in this poncy gaff
Winding myself up with a frown.
I'm sure once it all starts
I'll be gein to feel ok
As I'm growing to love poetry
Morning, night and day.
Could it be my preconception
Of poetry being for the educated crowd
Time for me to ignore that
And plough on unbowed.
Turns out my worries were over nothing
They seemed to really enjoy my two
About time I stopped judging people
If I'm going to see this poetry through.
I'm now at that stage of performing
Where I genuinely appreciate what others think
The fact they seem to like me
Leaves me tickled pink.
As the evening wore on
I even got used to the bar
You can't beat a good round of applause
To make you feel like a star!
I know I'll never be able to
But I need to stop hating the middle class
I'm not saying they're 'all' decent
But I'm talking half out of my arse.
Because if they can stop and listen
And enjoy what I have to say
Surely I can do the decent thing-
Do the same and meet halfway.
Dulwich Poet 18th November 2014
( I went to 'Spoken', a spoken word & music night, in Shoreditch, on the corner of Brick Lane. It was in a bar I would never go into, as it's not my type of place. Perhaps this poem was about my nervousness & insecurity at being in such a bar, but once the poetry started I calmed down and enjoyed the evening.)
Sunday 16 November 2014
"Up and Coming"
Some things will never change
Peckham represents every nation
Don't believe all you hear
About this so-called gentrification.
We've still got our untold Irish
Nigerians, Vietnamese galore
And a ton of Council flats
Populated by the poor.
In fact the only thing bringing down the area,
What I'd call 'Upmarket Blight'
Is the weirdy beardy tosspot middle class hipsters
Who invade on a Friday & Saturday night.
If you venture down Rye Lane
You can't have a pint in a pub
All turned into posh flats or a bookies
So you're left with an 'edgy club'.
I'm not getting any younger
With age I thought I'd seen it all
But a mate took me in a place
Fuck me...did my jaw fall!
Don't get me wrong
I can accept change
But what kind of mug do you take me for
At that price range?
My 'new football friends'
Are ok but branded the 'student type'
Then we walk into London's only 'arcade bar'
Magnet for the genuine hipster cunt type.
Overpriced craft beers
Being ripped off just to be hip
Is it any wonder on my working class shoulder
I've got such a huge fucking chip?
The only black bloke there
Was the bouncer on the door
Economic apartheid
No entry for Peckham's poor.
They all call SE15 'edgy'
Scared of bumping into a 'Gangsta' with a gun
But still take the risk of coming here
Because an old shooting game is fun.
I'm not advocating violence
Though I'd love to give this crowd a rocket
In my head wishing I had
A hand grenade in my pocket.
To be fair I wouldn't know a 'hipster'
If one hit me in the face
But if one of them did that
He soon know his fucking place!
I just wish they'd piss off back to the station
And get back on their Overground
Away from a Rye Lane I know longer know
Bugger off home Shoreditch and Dalston bound.
Dulwich Poet 16th November 2014
(On the way home from football on Saturday, I stayed with a few mates, and we went into Peckham. We went into 'The Four Quarters' on Rye Lane..something called an 'arcade bar'!)
Peckham represents every nation
Don't believe all you hear
About this so-called gentrification.
We've still got our untold Irish
Nigerians, Vietnamese galore
And a ton of Council flats
Populated by the poor.
In fact the only thing bringing down the area,
What I'd call 'Upmarket Blight'
Is the weirdy beardy tosspot middle class hipsters
Who invade on a Friday & Saturday night.
If you venture down Rye Lane
You can't have a pint in a pub
All turned into posh flats or a bookies
So you're left with an 'edgy club'.
I'm not getting any younger
With age I thought I'd seen it all
But a mate took me in a place
Fuck me...did my jaw fall!
Don't get me wrong
I can accept change
But what kind of mug do you take me for
At that price range?
My 'new football friends'
Are ok but branded the 'student type'
Then we walk into London's only 'arcade bar'
Magnet for the genuine hipster cunt type.
Overpriced craft beers
Being ripped off just to be hip
Is it any wonder on my working class shoulder
I've got such a huge fucking chip?
The only black bloke there
Was the bouncer on the door
Economic apartheid
No entry for Peckham's poor.
They all call SE15 'edgy'
Scared of bumping into a 'Gangsta' with a gun
But still take the risk of coming here
Because an old shooting game is fun.
I'm not advocating violence
Though I'd love to give this crowd a rocket
In my head wishing I had
A hand grenade in my pocket.
To be fair I wouldn't know a 'hipster'
If one hit me in the face
But if one of them did that
He soon know his fucking place!
I just wish they'd piss off back to the station
And get back on their Overground
Away from a Rye Lane I know longer know
Bugger off home Shoreditch and Dalston bound.
Dulwich Poet 16th November 2014
(On the way home from football on Saturday, I stayed with a few mates, and we went into Peckham. We went into 'The Four Quarters' on Rye Lane..something called an 'arcade bar'!)
"Down By The Riverside"
The Festival Hall
In the heart of London
The most cosmopolitan
City in the world.
Sat here on a Sunday
Surrounded by Suburbia
For their funday;
Trumpets, Tombones
Light, catchy jazz for free.
A brief respite before
Their dreary nine to five Monday.
A magnet for middle class hordes
And the just passing through
Working class me.
Entertaining, uplifting
Smiles galore
Taking away the world pain
Of Press Photos up on the same floor.
Death and destruction
From all over the world
Horrors and injustice
Dramatically unfurled.
A quick glimpse
And then it's gone
Don't want to spoil the day
Time to move on.
The last thing they want
Is horror to intrude on their life
We don't to upset
The 2.2 kids and wife.
Blood and pain
Death galore
Thinking 'oh how terrible'
And they 'must do more'
With no concern
For the London poor.
Got no time to stop
For that 'Big Issue' on sale
Got to dash home
Got a taxi to hail.
No need to cook later on
'Cos you've been fleeced
At the pop-up world food stall
That has got it all.
How wonderful this foreign food tastes
Doing your bit for ethnicity and race
Making sure your belly's full
While stuffing your comfortable face.
Go back to your complacent bubble
Of Surbiton, Sutton or Pinner
Catch up on today's 'Mail on Sunday'
And decide UKIP's a winner.
Vote to crush those people
Who escaped those photos you saw
Having to doss on our streets
You quickly forget behind your door.
I know I'm generalising
And shouldn't hate the posh
Realising left-wing rhetoric
Can be total tosh.
But at heart I'll always be a
'Gaw Blimey grew up on a Council Estate' bloke
And I can't stand those posh types who play
Mockney-Cockney common-as-muck folk.
What I'm trying to say is
We can't just blame corporate bankers
Time to turn closer to home
And attack some middle class wankers!
Dulwich Poet 16th November 2014
( I was changing my books at the Poetry Libray, which is based at the Royal Festival Hall, by the River Thames, on the South Bank. There was a weekend long jazz festival there, with some free events, so it was very busy. There was also a free photographic exhibition, which is there every year, for the World Press Awards.)
In the heart of London
The most cosmopolitan
City in the world.
Sat here on a Sunday
Surrounded by Suburbia
For their funday;
Trumpets, Tombones
Light, catchy jazz for free.
A brief respite before
Their dreary nine to five Monday.
A magnet for middle class hordes
And the just passing through
Working class me.
Entertaining, uplifting
Smiles galore
Taking away the world pain
Of Press Photos up on the same floor.
Death and destruction
From all over the world
Horrors and injustice
Dramatically unfurled.
A quick glimpse
And then it's gone
Don't want to spoil the day
Time to move on.
The last thing they want
Is horror to intrude on their life
We don't to upset
The 2.2 kids and wife.
Blood and pain
Death galore
Thinking 'oh how terrible'
And they 'must do more'
With no concern
For the London poor.
Got no time to stop
For that 'Big Issue' on sale
Got to dash home
Got a taxi to hail.
No need to cook later on
'Cos you've been fleeced
At the pop-up world food stall
That has got it all.
How wonderful this foreign food tastes
Doing your bit for ethnicity and race
Making sure your belly's full
While stuffing your comfortable face.
Go back to your complacent bubble
Of Surbiton, Sutton or Pinner
Catch up on today's 'Mail on Sunday'
And decide UKIP's a winner.
Vote to crush those people
Who escaped those photos you saw
Having to doss on our streets
You quickly forget behind your door.
I know I'm generalising
And shouldn't hate the posh
Realising left-wing rhetoric
Can be total tosh.
But at heart I'll always be a
'Gaw Blimey grew up on a Council Estate' bloke
And I can't stand those posh types who play
Mockney-Cockney common-as-muck folk.
What I'm trying to say is
We can't just blame corporate bankers
Time to turn closer to home
And attack some middle class wankers!
Dulwich Poet 16th November 2014
( I was changing my books at the Poetry Libray, which is based at the Royal Festival Hall, by the River Thames, on the South Bank. There was a weekend long jazz festival there, with some free events, so it was very busy. There was also a free photographic exhibition, which is there every year, for the World Press Awards.)
Friday 14 November 2014
"Turning The Page"
Visiting the Poetry Library's
Very hit and miss
Some books are a delight
Others worse than this.
As a Born Again Atheist
Dear oh dear
This one I'll skim
I'll get no cheer.
For my religion's football
My God is Edgar Kail
Dulwich Hamlet's greatest player
Is the one I spiritually hail.
For I don't care whether you're
Christian, jew, muslim, sikh
I want no part of
Your religious clique.
I enjoy perusing poems
As much as I can read
For entertainment and inspiration
Planting an idea from a seed.
It's poetry that helps me
Not any god squad faith
I don't need your religions
To help keep me safe.
I use my rhyme
To keep me calm
Don't need your beliefs
To protect me from harm.
For me it was just bad luck
Picking up your book
More than one mention of your god
Was all that it took.
Don't get me wrong
You're entitled to preach
Just don't want it near me
Keep it out of my reach.
The only 'pleasure' I got
Was the first datestamp on your label
It seems nobody else has been interested
In your religious fable.
If it takes another twenty four years
For you to be read
I'll see if you were right
As I'll almost certainly be dead!
If I'm standing outside heaven
At St. Peter's door
And he doesn't welcome me
I don't want to be there for sure.
Truth is no-one knows
If there's heaven or hell
Despite religious brainwashing
It's impossible to tell.
While I'm breathing on earth
With life I'll muddle on and cope
I don't need strange men in white dog collars
To give me false hope.
All we really need is
One mantra of "Be nice!"
Enough to end all wars and hate
Surely that should suffice?
Dulwich Poet 14th November 2014
(I am not religious at all. When I choose books from the Poetry Library, it's usually judged by the blurb on the cover, with a quick flick at one inside. Sometimes the book I choose isn't for me...certainly not when they contain religious poems. This is about choosing one of those...& I scribbled this down, after trying to read it, while sitting in a hospital waiting room.)
Very hit and miss
Some books are a delight
Others worse than this.
As a Born Again Atheist
Dear oh dear
This one I'll skim
I'll get no cheer.
For my religion's football
My God is Edgar Kail
Dulwich Hamlet's greatest player
Is the one I spiritually hail.
For I don't care whether you're
Christian, jew, muslim, sikh
I want no part of
Your religious clique.
I enjoy perusing poems
As much as I can read
For entertainment and inspiration
Planting an idea from a seed.
It's poetry that helps me
Not any god squad faith
I don't need your religions
To help keep me safe.
I use my rhyme
To keep me calm
Don't need your beliefs
To protect me from harm.
For me it was just bad luck
Picking up your book
More than one mention of your god
Was all that it took.
Don't get me wrong
You're entitled to preach
Just don't want it near me
Keep it out of my reach.
The only 'pleasure' I got
Was the first datestamp on your label
It seems nobody else has been interested
In your religious fable.
If it takes another twenty four years
For you to be read
I'll see if you were right
As I'll almost certainly be dead!
If I'm standing outside heaven
At St. Peter's door
And he doesn't welcome me
I don't want to be there for sure.
Truth is no-one knows
If there's heaven or hell
Despite religious brainwashing
It's impossible to tell.
While I'm breathing on earth
With life I'll muddle on and cope
I don't need strange men in white dog collars
To give me false hope.
All we really need is
One mantra of "Be nice!"
Enough to end all wars and hate
Surely that should suffice?
Dulwich Poet 14th November 2014
(I am not religious at all. When I choose books from the Poetry Library, it's usually judged by the blurb on the cover, with a quick flick at one inside. Sometimes the book I choose isn't for me...certainly not when they contain religious poems. This is about choosing one of those...& I scribbled this down, after trying to read it, while sitting in a hospital waiting room.)
Thursday 13 November 2014
"On The Buses"
When 176's were Routemasters
The bus home from school wasn't complete
If we didn't pile upstairs to the front
Pretending to drive and stamp our feet.
We'd make the driver scream and shout below
Our stomping was hurting his head
Scared he would rush up to us
With that slap schoolboys dread.
For adults could do what they liked
These were pre-Childline days
Traditional clips-round-the-ear were the norm
Leaving us not so innocent brats in a daze.
The bus fare home was three p
A penny off for the stop before
So if you braved climbing Dog Kennel Hill
You'd ruin your dinner for sure.
For a portion of chips was just a penny
That's how cheap the Seventies had been
Steaming hot with salt and vinegar
Feast fit for a king and queen.
The buses were our gateway to freedom
Thanks to the Red Bus Rover
Spending no more than ten bob
They'd take us all over.
The world was our oyster
Long before those cards were made
Anywhere in London
That was how we played.
A 37 from Peckham to Hounslow
If we fancied a long trip west
But the number 12 to Oxford Street
For shoplifting that was best.
The long gone tourist ticket
Was our passport to things we could never afford
And thanks to half-term strength in numbers
Tealeafing success was assured.
Going back South of the River
With our jumpers and sweets we'd holler
Writing this with adult hindsight
Lucky there were no Old Bill to feel our collar.
We must have been a nightmare
When the Routemaster was a proper bus
Jumping on and off like crazy
Creating such a fuss.
Holding onto the pole at the back
Feet flying in the air
It was probably quite dangerous
But as kids we didn't care.
Now I've reached middle age
I'm just happy to get a seat
One with a view by the window
That's my simple day trip treat.
When I was a little kid
It was double deckers to the christmas lights
Charging upstairs was a nightmare
The dash for the front seat causing fights.
That was as 'artistic' as it ever got
Well right up until this time
I honestly thought I'd never share
A big red bus with poets who rhyme.
Dulwich Poet 13th November 2014
(Tonight I went over to east London to get on a 242 bus, from Hackney to central London, an on-board poetry night!. It was an open public event, on an ordinary bus service, where poets took over the upper deck, and three feature poets performed, then some open Mic, which continued at the end of the route, when we found a sopt to read at Covent Garden. I forgot my 'poetry folder' at home, so I wrote this earlier in the day, to read for my Open Mic piece.)
The bus home from school wasn't complete
If we didn't pile upstairs to the front
Pretending to drive and stamp our feet.
We'd make the driver scream and shout below
Our stomping was hurting his head
Scared he would rush up to us
With that slap schoolboys dread.
For adults could do what they liked
These were pre-Childline days
Traditional clips-round-the-ear were the norm
Leaving us not so innocent brats in a daze.
The bus fare home was three p
A penny off for the stop before
So if you braved climbing Dog Kennel Hill
You'd ruin your dinner for sure.
For a portion of chips was just a penny
That's how cheap the Seventies had been
Steaming hot with salt and vinegar
Feast fit for a king and queen.
The buses were our gateway to freedom
Thanks to the Red Bus Rover
Spending no more than ten bob
They'd take us all over.
The world was our oyster
Long before those cards were made
Anywhere in London
That was how we played.
A 37 from Peckham to Hounslow
If we fancied a long trip west
But the number 12 to Oxford Street
For shoplifting that was best.
The long gone tourist ticket
Was our passport to things we could never afford
And thanks to half-term strength in numbers
Tealeafing success was assured.
Going back South of the River
With our jumpers and sweets we'd holler
Writing this with adult hindsight
Lucky there were no Old Bill to feel our collar.
We must have been a nightmare
When the Routemaster was a proper bus
Jumping on and off like crazy
Creating such a fuss.
Holding onto the pole at the back
Feet flying in the air
It was probably quite dangerous
But as kids we didn't care.
Now I've reached middle age
I'm just happy to get a seat
One with a view by the window
That's my simple day trip treat.
When I was a little kid
It was double deckers to the christmas lights
Charging upstairs was a nightmare
The dash for the front seat causing fights.
That was as 'artistic' as it ever got
Well right up until this time
I honestly thought I'd never share
A big red bus with poets who rhyme.
Dulwich Poet 13th November 2014
(Tonight I went over to east London to get on a 242 bus, from Hackney to central London, an on-board poetry night!. It was an open public event, on an ordinary bus service, where poets took over the upper deck, and three feature poets performed, then some open Mic, which continued at the end of the route, when we found a sopt to read at Covent Garden. I forgot my 'poetry folder' at home, so I wrote this earlier in the day, to read for my Open Mic piece.)
Wednesday 12 November 2014
"Field of Red"
I am the King of the road
Majestic in my boredom
Sat high above
Not your stream of poppies
Celebrated at the Tower
But red specks
As far as the eye can see.
Crawling along
Ahead of me
On the road down to Maidstone.
My thoughts turn to the players
Who went on their adventure
And never returned to board
The matchday charabanc again.
Awayday drudgery
From the luxury
Of a seat on the team coach
A hundred years on.
Dulwich Poet 12th November 2014
( I wrote this sitting on the coach to Maidstone United away. It was the day after Armistice Day, when the field of red poppies at the Tower of London was in the news. The rear red lights of motors in front of us reminded me of poppies.)
Majestic in my boredom
Sat high above
Not your stream of poppies
Celebrated at the Tower
But red specks
As far as the eye can see.
Crawling along
Ahead of me
On the road down to Maidstone.
My thoughts turn to the players
Who went on their adventure
And never returned to board
The matchday charabanc again.
Awayday drudgery
From the luxury
Of a seat on the team coach
A hundred years on.
Dulwich Poet 12th November 2014
( I wrote this sitting on the coach to Maidstone United away. It was the day after Armistice Day, when the field of red poppies at the Tower of London was in the news. The rear red lights of motors in front of us reminded me of poppies.)
"Lost & Found"
Ecstacy is not a drug
Neither is winning the FA Cup
Ecstacy is kissing
And carressing the cover
Of your poetry notebook.
Squeezing it tightly
To your chest
Holding it up
To your heart
As it it were
Your very first lover.
(Not that I know
What they are
Which is why
I write poetry.)
But I digress...
Like your first love
Once it's gone
It's gone forever.
Scraps of ideas
LOST
Even if they
Weren't too clever.
I thought I'd lost you
Starting to get distraught
Knowing I'd NEVER
Be able to recall
Whatever once held
My train of thought.
This poetry bug's bitten me
Worse than being punched in the face
And left lying in the dirt.
My stomach was churning
Creative butterfly fears
All I have are my pens
And distant ideas.
Germs of a poem
I'll never remember...
Until I get home!
And I'm through the door
There it is!
Lying on the floor.
Standing in my front room
I don't need any drugs
Though I do wish
I had someone
To share a few hugs.
But I mustn't be greedy
For I've just discovered
The true meaning of the word
I began with at the start.
Writing poetry is MY ecstacy
Words from the heart.
Dulwich Poet 12th November 2014
(I thought I had lost my notebook, which I write down scraps of ideas in my head, for future poems. I was really annoyed, because, those thoughts will never come back to me, but I found it when I got home, I hadn't packed it in my bag after all...)
Neither is winning the FA Cup
Ecstacy is kissing
And carressing the cover
Of your poetry notebook.
Squeezing it tightly
To your chest
Holding it up
To your heart
As it it were
Your very first lover.
(Not that I know
What they are
Which is why
I write poetry.)
But I digress...
Like your first love
Once it's gone
It's gone forever.
Scraps of ideas
LOST
Even if they
Weren't too clever.
I thought I'd lost you
Starting to get distraught
Knowing I'd NEVER
Be able to recall
Whatever once held
My train of thought.
This poetry bug's bitten me
Worse than being punched in the face
And left lying in the dirt.
My stomach was churning
Creative butterfly fears
All I have are my pens
And distant ideas.
Germs of a poem
I'll never remember...
Until I get home!
And I'm through the door
There it is!
Lying on the floor.
Standing in my front room
I don't need any drugs
Though I do wish
I had someone
To share a few hugs.
But I mustn't be greedy
For I've just discovered
The true meaning of the word
I began with at the start.
Writing poetry is MY ecstacy
Words from the heart.
Dulwich Poet 12th November 2014
(I thought I had lost my notebook, which I write down scraps of ideas in my head, for future poems. I was really annoyed, because, those thoughts will never come back to me, but I found it when I got home, I hadn't packed it in my bag after all...)
Monday 10 November 2014
"How Could They..."
I looked at the calendar
I had to double check:
I was correct-
Today IS the day
But not a peep!
Am I the only one?
Did they all die in vain?
All 2,996 of them.
Maybe it's been overshadowed today
By Remembrance Sunday.
Understandable I suppose...
What with today being 9/11.
Dulwich Poet 9th November 2014.
(A short one, a play on Americans reading dates on the calendar month first.)
I had to double check:
I was correct-
Today IS the day
But not a peep!
Am I the only one?
Did they all die in vain?
All 2,996 of them.
Maybe it's been overshadowed today
By Remembrance Sunday.
Understandable I suppose...
What with today being 9/11.
Dulwich Poet 9th November 2014.
(A short one, a play on Americans reading dates on the calendar month first.)
"Featuring..."
It's just something I do for fun
I'm not a 'Proper Poet'
But deep down I know that's what I am
Just too scared to show it.
I've grown to love my nights out
Doing lots of Open Mic
But if you suggested I might 'feature'
I'd say get on your bike!
Taking to various stages
Making lots of friends
Thoroughly enjoying what I do
I hope it never ends.
Now I've been asked to "feature"
A fancy term for a longer set
Despite it really being nothing special
It's the best thing that's happened yet.
But this poem's not about me
Though I'm really made up
I doubt if I could be more thrilled
If The Hamlet won the Cup!
I'd like to thank the strangers
Who've grown into 'proper poetry friends'
Too many to name them all
Scared to leave someone out
This is turning into a 'Luvvie'
Oscar winning shout.
There's Niall from 'Unplugged'
My first ever Open Mic host
Real 'proper poets' like Sean
Who encouraged me most
Strangers Like Tom Bland
Who were anything but
And all of those poets
Who refused to tut.
Real performance talent like David
Same as me Sarf Lunnon working class
Allowing me to perform Open Mic
Even if I talk out of my arse.
Always grateful to Lizzie
Who wrote about me in a Lunar review
And to everyone else who
Gives me the courage to do what I do.
Then there's the Dulwich Hamlet fan
Who encouraged me to pick up a pen
I never thought I'd love it so much
My life won't be the same again.
To Alan, Irina, John-Paul, & Co.
All of you who welcomed me
To your Open Mic show
And lastly to Ernie
For my forthcoming feature set
I my so far short poetry life
It's the best moment yet.
Dulwich Poet 9th November 2014
(I have been enjoying going to and participating in poetry night Open Mic events for over a year now. On Saturday I did an Open Mic slot at 'Platform 1 Poetry'. At these things you ge 4 or 5 minutes to read what you like. Platform 1 is split into three segments, and you have a featured poet in each one, who gets their name on the pre-publicity, and you get, in effect, an extended 'Open Mic' slot, where you can read for ten minutes. I have only ever done Open Mic, but for the first time have been asked to do at feature, at an upcoming' Platform 1 poetry night'. It's not a great achievment compared to the many talented poets I listen to, but inside I am so proud of myself...and am not ashamed to say so...)
I'm not a 'Proper Poet'
But deep down I know that's what I am
Just too scared to show it.
I've grown to love my nights out
Doing lots of Open Mic
But if you suggested I might 'feature'
I'd say get on your bike!
Taking to various stages
Making lots of friends
Thoroughly enjoying what I do
I hope it never ends.
Now I've been asked to "feature"
A fancy term for a longer set
Despite it really being nothing special
It's the best thing that's happened yet.
But this poem's not about me
Though I'm really made up
I doubt if I could be more thrilled
If The Hamlet won the Cup!
I'd like to thank the strangers
Who've grown into 'proper poetry friends'
Too many to name them all
Scared to leave someone out
This is turning into a 'Luvvie'
Oscar winning shout.
There's Niall from 'Unplugged'
My first ever Open Mic host
Real 'proper poets' like Sean
Who encouraged me most
Strangers Like Tom Bland
Who were anything but
And all of those poets
Who refused to tut.
Real performance talent like David
Same as me Sarf Lunnon working class
Allowing me to perform Open Mic
Even if I talk out of my arse.
Always grateful to Lizzie
Who wrote about me in a Lunar review
And to everyone else who
Gives me the courage to do what I do.
Then there's the Dulwich Hamlet fan
Who encouraged me to pick up a pen
I never thought I'd love it so much
My life won't be the same again.
To Alan, Irina, John-Paul, & Co.
All of you who welcomed me
To your Open Mic show
And lastly to Ernie
For my forthcoming feature set
I my so far short poetry life
It's the best moment yet.
Dulwich Poet 9th November 2014
(I have been enjoying going to and participating in poetry night Open Mic events for over a year now. On Saturday I did an Open Mic slot at 'Platform 1 Poetry'. At these things you ge 4 or 5 minutes to read what you like. Platform 1 is split into three segments, and you have a featured poet in each one, who gets their name on the pre-publicity, and you get, in effect, an extended 'Open Mic' slot, where you can read for ten minutes. I have only ever done Open Mic, but for the first time have been asked to do at feature, at an upcoming' Platform 1 poetry night'. It's not a great achievment compared to the many talented poets I listen to, but inside I am so proud of myself...and am not ashamed to say so...)
Saturday 8 November 2014
"Issues"
It was so fucking miserable
Soaked walking down the street
Then I saw a drenched 'Big Issue' seller
And I was a bit more upbeat.
My life may not be perfect
In fact it's rather crap
But it could be far worse
I couldn't get in a flap.
Touch wood my drinking days are over
And I'm learning to cope
Twelves years a sober alcoholic
At least I've got some hope.
If I'd carried on boozing
I'd be on the street or worse
I certainly would be capable
Of articulating my thoughts in verse.
If I hadn't gone to A.A.
You can take this as read
I wouldn't be sharing poetry
I'd be in the gutter dead.
I'd stopped to buy my Lottery
Dreaming of great wealth
When I've already won top prize
Of sobriety and my health.
That was enough to give me amoment
Time for a second thought
And when I went back out into the wet
His last 'Big Issue' I bought.
In reality I'm not so badly off
That I couldn't afford to buy
Even though I don't believe
In that imaginary 'god'
But for the grace of go I.
Dulwich Poet 8th November 2014
(I wrote this after Saturday night. It was pouring down with rain, & I was getting wet on the way to the monthly 'Platform 1 Poetry' Open Mic. Then I passed a drenched bloke selling the homeless 'Big Issue' magazine. I waved him away, but coming out of the shop I'd popped into, to get my lottery ticket, I bought a copy off of him)
Soaked walking down the street
Then I saw a drenched 'Big Issue' seller
And I was a bit more upbeat.
My life may not be perfect
In fact it's rather crap
But it could be far worse
I couldn't get in a flap.
Touch wood my drinking days are over
And I'm learning to cope
Twelves years a sober alcoholic
At least I've got some hope.
If I'd carried on boozing
I'd be on the street or worse
I certainly would be capable
Of articulating my thoughts in verse.
If I hadn't gone to A.A.
You can take this as read
I wouldn't be sharing poetry
I'd be in the gutter dead.
I'd stopped to buy my Lottery
Dreaming of great wealth
When I've already won top prize
Of sobriety and my health.
That was enough to give me amoment
Time for a second thought
And when I went back out into the wet
His last 'Big Issue' I bought.
In reality I'm not so badly off
That I couldn't afford to buy
Even though I don't believe
In that imaginary 'god'
But for the grace of go I.
Dulwich Poet 8th November 2014
(I wrote this after Saturday night. It was pouring down with rain, & I was getting wet on the way to the monthly 'Platform 1 Poetry' Open Mic. Then I passed a drenched bloke selling the homeless 'Big Issue' magazine. I waved him away, but coming out of the shop I'd popped into, to get my lottery ticket, I bought a copy off of him)
"Private Poppy Pride"
Are you saying I'm unpatriotic
Or do I not really care?
Just because I'm not wearing a Poppy
That is so unfair.
How dare you judge me
Saying I should show one with pride
My one's on my heart
It's just worn inside.
I remember the sacrifice of the soldier
Though I don't believe in every war
Silently shedding an invisible tear
For the cannon fodder working class poor.
At my Football Club I'll bow my head
Always respecting our playing dead
For those who changed into khaki
From our Pink & Blue
Blindly making the ultimate sacrifice
Because that was the thing to do.
Something we do every season
Our oldest fan Bill is ninety four
Recalling our fallen
Inside the Boardroom door.
It never gets easier for him
As he lays his wreath
Maybe crying a little
With pain underneath.
I shall stand and pay my respects
My thoughts may be different to others
Wondering about those on the other side
From families like my mothers.
I don't wear my red Poppy
Because I think that's wrong
It's just a personal something
Don't want to make a dance and a song.
I always spare a few coins
For the Legion rattling tin
But it's a deed that's private
Something deep from within.
I've got a Poppy at home
A wristband and more
Proud of my country
So I know the score.
But I care about soldiers
That fought on all sides
Which is why I don't show off
Pretending to wear a Poppy with pride.
Can you imagine what a better place
Our world could have been
If people acted on conscience
Rather than following the masses
For Country and Queen?
World War Two was a just one
Taking on the Nazi might
But in recent years' conflicts
I can take no delight
In supporting brave soldiers
Who went into battle
But ended up gettiing slaughtered
Like an abattoir of cattle.
I've been to the Tower
Seen ceramic Poppies in the soil
If you say I'm unpatriotic not to wear one
It makes my blood boil!
To accuse me of that
Will make me rant and rave
But at least from within
I'm proud of having a conscience
That knows how to behave.
Dulwich Poet 8th November 2014
(I wrote this in response to some people on the radio saying that everyone should be made to wear the traditional red Poppies. It should be a choice, with far too many people, I believe, wearing them just to be seen wearing them)
Or do I not really care?
Just because I'm not wearing a Poppy
That is so unfair.
How dare you judge me
Saying I should show one with pride
My one's on my heart
It's just worn inside.
I remember the sacrifice of the soldier
Though I don't believe in every war
Silently shedding an invisible tear
For the cannon fodder working class poor.
At my Football Club I'll bow my head
Always respecting our playing dead
For those who changed into khaki
From our Pink & Blue
Blindly making the ultimate sacrifice
Because that was the thing to do.
Something we do every season
Our oldest fan Bill is ninety four
Recalling our fallen
Inside the Boardroom door.
It never gets easier for him
As he lays his wreath
Maybe crying a little
With pain underneath.
I shall stand and pay my respects
My thoughts may be different to others
Wondering about those on the other side
From families like my mothers.
I don't wear my red Poppy
Because I think that's wrong
It's just a personal something
Don't want to make a dance and a song.
I always spare a few coins
For the Legion rattling tin
But it's a deed that's private
Something deep from within.
I've got a Poppy at home
A wristband and more
Proud of my country
So I know the score.
But I care about soldiers
That fought on all sides
Which is why I don't show off
Pretending to wear a Poppy with pride.
Can you imagine what a better place
Our world could have been
If people acted on conscience
Rather than following the masses
For Country and Queen?
World War Two was a just one
Taking on the Nazi might
But in recent years' conflicts
I can take no delight
In supporting brave soldiers
Who went into battle
But ended up gettiing slaughtered
Like an abattoir of cattle.
I've been to the Tower
Seen ceramic Poppies in the soil
If you say I'm unpatriotic not to wear one
It makes my blood boil!
To accuse me of that
Will make me rant and rave
But at least from within
I'm proud of having a conscience
That knows how to behave.
Dulwich Poet 8th November 2014
(I wrote this in response to some people on the radio saying that everyone should be made to wear the traditional red Poppies. It should be a choice, with far too many people, I believe, wearing them just to be seen wearing them)
Friday 7 November 2014
"Here Is A Six Word Retort"
Insanity fucks you
Three points calms.
Dulwich Poet 7th November 2014
(A friend on Facebook wrote a six word poem, which was this:
Within storm clouds,
Insanity is peace
The above was my response.)
Wednesday 5 November 2014
"Doing a Poem by Halves"
Is your glass half empty
Or is your glass half full?
A bit like your mind in poetry
But then that's half the pull.
All I've been asked to do
Is jot something down in half a page
If it doesn't fit in
I got to have a rage.
For once the tap is turned on
You can't halt the flow of ideas in your head
That's the problem with poetry
You can't leave an idea stone dead.
If you need something to describe me
I'd say I'm quite lazy at heart
But when it comes to writing a poem
Can't leave it half done once I start.
I've no idea what I'm doing
Dave said a page of A5
If it was anyone else I'd say you're bonkers
But seeing as you're 'proper Sarf Lunnon' I'll strive.
Truth is i'm soing this in a notebook
Before I transfer to your size of paper
I hope that doesn't half mess up
His arty farty caper.
When a mate asks you a favour
You help him with his task
From my part of London you don't reason why
Questions you don't ask.
So I've done what he wanted
Even though I don't understand
This half page masquerading as a poem
Done for David from my own hand.
Dulwich Poet 5th November 2014
( A friend of the 'poetry circuit' has been asking other poets to write a poem on an A5 piece of paper, if I understood it right. he wouldn't say what it was for, but clearly part of some sort of 'art project' he's doing. This is what I wrote.)
Or is your glass half full?
A bit like your mind in poetry
But then that's half the pull.
All I've been asked to do
Is jot something down in half a page
If it doesn't fit in
I got to have a rage.
For once the tap is turned on
You can't halt the flow of ideas in your head
That's the problem with poetry
You can't leave an idea stone dead.
If you need something to describe me
I'd say I'm quite lazy at heart
But when it comes to writing a poem
Can't leave it half done once I start.
I've no idea what I'm doing
Dave said a page of A5
If it was anyone else I'd say you're bonkers
But seeing as you're 'proper Sarf Lunnon' I'll strive.
Truth is i'm soing this in a notebook
Before I transfer to your size of paper
I hope that doesn't half mess up
His arty farty caper.
When a mate asks you a favour
You help him with his task
From my part of London you don't reason why
Questions you don't ask.
So I've done what he wanted
Even though I don't understand
This half page masquerading as a poem
Done for David from my own hand.
Dulwich Poet 5th November 2014
( A friend of the 'poetry circuit' has been asking other poets to write a poem on an A5 piece of paper, if I understood it right. he wouldn't say what it was for, but clearly part of some sort of 'art project' he's doing. This is what I wrote.)
Monday 3 November 2014
"Payback Time"
A century after the Great war began
The donkeys they still bray
Raising a glass to their chancellor chum Osborne
They're rolling in the hay.
For he done the 'decent thing'
And finally paid back
Two hundred and eighteen million pound
The return of all that money
How crazy does that sound?
Of course "We're all in this together"
And times are really hard
Those City types have offices to keep
In fancy places like The Shard.
What about the descendants of the lions
Struggling on their council estate
No money left for them
They will just have to wait.
Cressingham Gardens by Brockwell Park
Soon to be under Lambeth's wrecking ball
Yet a working class community could be saved
If politicians cared at all.
It was ordinary folk from Herne Hill & Brixton
Who answered the call to die
The 'lucky' shell shocked ones who returned home
Fell for the 'Homes for Heroes' cry.
Today modern flats will be demolished
Local people sent north, south, east and west
Replaced by 'affordable' homes they can't afford
Our elected representatives know best.
Clearly too expensive to maintain
It might sound a tad unpleasnat
But surely it makes more sense
To give City boys their christmas present.
For they've had years of struggle
Making do with last years Savile Row suit
Having to cope with smaller bonuses
And public vilification to boot.
So what if a few common oiks turfed out
Might leave you feeling miffed
Hand on heart be honest
Can you begrudge these toffs their gift?
Dulwich Poet 3rd November 2014
(I picked up as discarded copy of The Sun, on Saturday. There was a minor story, on page 39, with the headline BRIT WW1 DEBT PAID 97 YRS ON. It was about the Government paying back Firsst World War Bonds, where they reported: "...they are mostly held by City institutions". There is a council estate in South London called Cressingham Gardens, which are pefectly habitable, but Lambeth Council want to demolish, because they haven't got enough money to refurbish them...)
The donkeys they still bray
Raising a glass to their chancellor chum Osborne
They're rolling in the hay.
For he done the 'decent thing'
And finally paid back
Two hundred and eighteen million pound
The return of all that money
How crazy does that sound?
Of course "We're all in this together"
And times are really hard
Those City types have offices to keep
In fancy places like The Shard.
What about the descendants of the lions
Struggling on their council estate
No money left for them
They will just have to wait.
Cressingham Gardens by Brockwell Park
Soon to be under Lambeth's wrecking ball
Yet a working class community could be saved
If politicians cared at all.
It was ordinary folk from Herne Hill & Brixton
Who answered the call to die
The 'lucky' shell shocked ones who returned home
Fell for the 'Homes for Heroes' cry.
Today modern flats will be demolished
Local people sent north, south, east and west
Replaced by 'affordable' homes they can't afford
Our elected representatives know best.
Clearly too expensive to maintain
It might sound a tad unpleasnat
But surely it makes more sense
To give City boys their christmas present.
For they've had years of struggle
Making do with last years Savile Row suit
Having to cope with smaller bonuses
And public vilification to boot.
So what if a few common oiks turfed out
Might leave you feeling miffed
Hand on heart be honest
Can you begrudge these toffs their gift?
Dulwich Poet 3rd November 2014
(I picked up as discarded copy of The Sun, on Saturday. There was a minor story, on page 39, with the headline BRIT WW1 DEBT PAID 97 YRS ON. It was about the Government paying back Firsst World War Bonds, where they reported: "...they are mostly held by City institutions". There is a council estate in South London called Cressingham Gardens, which are pefectly habitable, but Lambeth Council want to demolish, because they haven't got enough money to refurbish them...)
Friday 31 October 2014
"Guy Fawkes Off"
Oh for the good old days of Bonfire Night
Now it's all about Halloween
Where your old school sparklers and bangers
Are nowhere to be seen.
It was always such a good earner
Penny for the Guy
That's what we spent on sweets
Not rockets to the sky.
Now the kids go begging
Knocking on your door
Not content with a sweet
They want even more.
Please stop me if I'm wrong
Though I don't care in the least
Wouldn't Halloween have been perfect
For Jimmy Savile the beast?
Now then, now then kiddies
Do you want a sweet
Why don't you come step inside
And see what I've got you for a treat?
It was the demise of Woolworths
I blame for 'trick or treat'
No more nicking stuff at 'Pick & Mix'
For your free sweeties treat.
Along came good old health & safety
It was too dangerous to have some fun
No more bangers in a letterbox
The do-gooders had won.
As for building your own bonfire
Ripping down your neighbours fence at night
Throwing petrol on the blaze having loads of fun
Even though not strictly right.
Putting rockets in milk bottles
Hoping they flew up in the air
Messing about with sparklers
Singeing your mates' hair.
Do-it-yourself baked potatoes
Silver foiled in the fire
Choking on the black smoke
From a burning tyre.
All of that a thing of the past
Thanks to Halloween
Identikit plastic Poundland tat
Is all that can be seen.
It sneaked in across the Atlantic
This foreign Halloween beast
UKIP weren't paying attention
Their eyes all focussed east.
So we're stuck with the tame Council display
Where many are forced to charge
You won't find me parting with a penny
Unless they're burning an effigy of Farage.
Dulwich Poet 31st October 2014
(I wrote this about the rise of Halloween, and the demise of Bonfire Night)
Now it's all about Halloween
Where your old school sparklers and bangers
Are nowhere to be seen.
It was always such a good earner
Penny for the Guy
That's what we spent on sweets
Not rockets to the sky.
Now the kids go begging
Knocking on your door
Not content with a sweet
They want even more.
Please stop me if I'm wrong
Though I don't care in the least
Wouldn't Halloween have been perfect
For Jimmy Savile the beast?
Now then, now then kiddies
Do you want a sweet
Why don't you come step inside
And see what I've got you for a treat?
It was the demise of Woolworths
I blame for 'trick or treat'
No more nicking stuff at 'Pick & Mix'
For your free sweeties treat.
Along came good old health & safety
It was too dangerous to have some fun
No more bangers in a letterbox
The do-gooders had won.
As for building your own bonfire
Ripping down your neighbours fence at night
Throwing petrol on the blaze having loads of fun
Even though not strictly right.
Putting rockets in milk bottles
Hoping they flew up in the air
Messing about with sparklers
Singeing your mates' hair.
Do-it-yourself baked potatoes
Silver foiled in the fire
Choking on the black smoke
From a burning tyre.
All of that a thing of the past
Thanks to Halloween
Identikit plastic Poundland tat
Is all that can be seen.
It sneaked in across the Atlantic
This foreign Halloween beast
UKIP weren't paying attention
Their eyes all focussed east.
So we're stuck with the tame Council display
Where many are forced to charge
You won't find me parting with a penny
Unless they're burning an effigy of Farage.
Dulwich Poet 31st October 2014
(I wrote this about the rise of Halloween, and the demise of Bonfire Night)
Thursday 30 October 2014
"London Bound"
I realise it's not the greatest airport
But there's fuck all else to do
But what is so wrong with people
That they have to form a queue?
First of all it's priority boarding
Who pay just to get on the plane
Maybe they jostled in the idiots queue
And simply thought never again.
I don't know why I'm getting wound up
I'm here because of the cheap price
Maybe I should ignore the lemmings in line
It's just a budget airline vice.
Though there is a perk to this flying
Even if I haven't paid much
The delightful 'eye candy'
Worth a look if I can't touch.
Not too keen on the 'Trolley Dolly'
But then girls are not my type
Just look at that Ryanair cabin boy
What's there not to like?
It almost makes me forgive them
For departing half an hour late
Something to do with ice on the wings
He makes it worth the wait.
He's young enough to be my son
I know I'm far too old
If I were twenty odd years younger
Maybe I'd dare to be bold.
As it is I'll fall asleep
Dreaming of him in a jiffy
The bonus of getting on in years
Is I won't wake up with a stiffy!
Dulwich Poet 30th October 2014
(I wrote this on the plane home from Brno, in the Czech Republic...)
But there's fuck all else to do
But what is so wrong with people
That they have to form a queue?
First of all it's priority boarding
Who pay just to get on the plane
Maybe they jostled in the idiots queue
And simply thought never again.
I don't know why I'm getting wound up
I'm here because of the cheap price
Maybe I should ignore the lemmings in line
It's just a budget airline vice.
Though there is a perk to this flying
Even if I haven't paid much
The delightful 'eye candy'
Worth a look if I can't touch.
Not too keen on the 'Trolley Dolly'
But then girls are not my type
Just look at that Ryanair cabin boy
What's there not to like?
It almost makes me forgive them
For departing half an hour late
Something to do with ice on the wings
He makes it worth the wait.
He's young enough to be my son
I know I'm far too old
If I were twenty odd years younger
Maybe I'd dare to be bold.
As it is I'll fall asleep
Dreaming of him in a jiffy
The bonus of getting on in years
Is I won't wake up with a stiffy!
Dulwich Poet 30th October 2014
(I wrote this on the plane home from Brno, in the Czech Republic...)
"Yesterdays News"
I had to take a second glance
At the bloke across the way
for he's sitting on my tube train
Reading the 'News of the World' today.
I'm wondering if I'm back on the booze
Surely I must be pissed
For it's been at least three years now
Since that rag did exist.
No, I've not gone crazy
I'm lucid and alive
Unlike the man with his paper
For it's from nineteen ninety five!
Maybe he's been in prison
Just got out of jail
I don't really want to ask him
In case I don't like the tale.
For he's wearing corduroy trousers
Which indicates a nonce
And he's got a Bobby Charlton comb-over
Across his balding bonce.
It was browning at the corners
But he'd kept it well in his cell
The headline said Tarrant was on the telly
Esther Rantzen as well.
Tarrant is still with us
It's the paper that's brown bread
Wish I could say the same of Esther
It's just her career that's dead.
I only caught a glimpse
I have no idea what was over the page
Maybe it was one of those big titty birds
That were all the rage.
All those years he was probably banged up
It was all he had to look at inside
Not counting when he dropped the soap in the shower
The closest he got to a ride.
Why was he really reading that paper
Truth is I haven't got a clue
Maybe I should have asked him
Which would have been the thing to do.
But I can't break the rules of London
NEVER speak to a stranger on a train
Which is why my mind was in overdrive
And this poem was so insane!
Dulwich Poet 30th October 2014
(A few months ago I was sat on a train and the bloke opposite was reading a newspaper. Nothing unusual in that...but it was a copy of the 'News of the World', which folded three years ago!)
At the bloke across the way
for he's sitting on my tube train
Reading the 'News of the World' today.
I'm wondering if I'm back on the booze
Surely I must be pissed
For it's been at least three years now
Since that rag did exist.
No, I've not gone crazy
I'm lucid and alive
Unlike the man with his paper
For it's from nineteen ninety five!
Maybe he's been in prison
Just got out of jail
I don't really want to ask him
In case I don't like the tale.
For he's wearing corduroy trousers
Which indicates a nonce
And he's got a Bobby Charlton comb-over
Across his balding bonce.
It was browning at the corners
But he'd kept it well in his cell
The headline said Tarrant was on the telly
Esther Rantzen as well.
Tarrant is still with us
It's the paper that's brown bread
Wish I could say the same of Esther
It's just her career that's dead.
I only caught a glimpse
I have no idea what was over the page
Maybe it was one of those big titty birds
That were all the rage.
All those years he was probably banged up
It was all he had to look at inside
Not counting when he dropped the soap in the shower
The closest he got to a ride.
Why was he really reading that paper
Truth is I haven't got a clue
Maybe I should have asked him
Which would have been the thing to do.
But I can't break the rules of London
NEVER speak to a stranger on a train
Which is why my mind was in overdrive
And this poem was so insane!
Dulwich Poet 30th October 2014
(A few months ago I was sat on a train and the bloke opposite was reading a newspaper. Nothing unusual in that...but it was a copy of the 'News of the World', which folded three years ago!)
Tuesday 28 October 2014
"Who Are Ya?"
I'm at a Czech non-league game
It cost just over a pound
Despite the fact it's so cheap
There's dozens outside the ground.
Even more than stood on 'Jews Hill'
Back at the old Millwall 'Den'
Apologies for being un-P.C.
It's just a term we used back then.
It's a Tuesday Bank Holiday morning
October sun breaking through the mist
Beers drunk by local in the ground
Another tick to my list.
Truth is the gam'es not a cracker
More keen endeavour than skill
But it's still a delight being a 'hopper' abroad
Able to sit on open benches and chill.
I'm not one for 'rules and regulations'
But I hate it if there's no score
Not for what you're thinking
I don't follow groundhopping 'law'.
It's just I don't speak the lingo
Haven't a scooby what's being said
A goal will tell me if it's the home team
Playing in the green or the red.
Seven minutes before half time
The ref points to the spot
A red man slams it into the net
The cheers tell me a lot.
Home team one up on the scoreboard
I now know which team is which
TJ Tatran Bohunice are beating Bzenec
Foreign groundhopping can be such a bitch!
Dulwich Poet 28th October 2014
(This was the first of two Bank Holiday non-league games in the Brno area, on my Czech trip. It's about wanting someone to score, so I can work out which team which, and the 'half groundhopping urban myth' that you can't count a nil-nil match as a 'tick'!)
It cost just over a pound
Despite the fact it's so cheap
There's dozens outside the ground.
Even more than stood on 'Jews Hill'
Back at the old Millwall 'Den'
Apologies for being un-P.C.
It's just a term we used back then.
It's a Tuesday Bank Holiday morning
October sun breaking through the mist
Beers drunk by local in the ground
Another tick to my list.
Truth is the gam'es not a cracker
More keen endeavour than skill
But it's still a delight being a 'hopper' abroad
Able to sit on open benches and chill.
I'm not one for 'rules and regulations'
But I hate it if there's no score
Not for what you're thinking
I don't follow groundhopping 'law'.
It's just I don't speak the lingo
Haven't a scooby what's being said
A goal will tell me if it's the home team
Playing in the green or the red.
Seven minutes before half time
The ref points to the spot
A red man slams it into the net
The cheers tell me a lot.
Home team one up on the scoreboard
I now know which team is which
TJ Tatran Bohunice are beating Bzenec
Foreign groundhopping can be such a bitch!
Dulwich Poet 28th October 2014
(This was the first of two Bank Holiday non-league games in the Brno area, on my Czech trip. It's about wanting someone to score, so I can work out which team which, and the 'half groundhopping urban myth' that you can't count a nil-nil match as a 'tick'!)
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