Waking up...reluctantly.
First thing in the morning
Wasn't always just to pee.
Doubled over the bath...
Heaving your guts up.
Nothing solid
Just acidic bile.
Retching... even causing
A nose bleed on top.
Always the same day after day.
Something I never questioned
It was the alcoholic way.
On the train to work
I thought I was
A 'normal' commuter
Couldn't have stuck out more
If I was drinking beer from pewter.
Swigging straight
From a fruity alcopop
Pretending it was
Healthy vitamin C
Keeping my alcohol levels on top.
If I was feeling rather bad
It could even be worse than that
Dashing to the pub
In my first tea break
Downing a Guinness
In five minutes flat.
Then came lunch time
Rarely time for food
To interupt my drinking
Would have been rude.
Back on the counter
Then off to for the paper
Picking up the Standard
Before it was free
Accompanied by two
Bottles of Hooch
An off-licence stop for me.
Any opportunity to neck a drink
I really didn't care
What anyone would think.
Poison and stench
Sweating shit out of my pores
I hummed so bad
I could clear library floors.
After work I'd have
A tin on the train
A never ending cycle
Drinking again and again.
Off to a match
Or just down to the ground
For the whole night
Round after lonely round.
In the Football Club bar
Necking my pint
The next one not far.
It might 'only' be a gallon
Or was it ten pints?
I genuinely could not remember
How I got home at night.
Crashing out in bed
Only to wake up in the morning...
Reluctantly.
Dulwich Poet 31st March 2014
(I have no idea how much I used to drink, but I do know that in my 'alcoholic madness' I thought I drank normally! This is about how much I might drink in a fairly average day....Frightening really!)
Monday 31 March 2014
"Questions In The House"
No matter how bad I feel
Life has still thrown me
A lucky deal.
For I was in a pub tonight
South London Hardcore Quiz
Even though I'm not that bright
In the Ivy House boozer
But with my scant knowledge
A certain loser.
Orange and lemonade
My drink of choice
The fact I'm here and sober
Is reason enough to rejoice.
Almost twelve years
Off the booze
I had nothing going for me
And so little to lose.
I'm genuinely lucky
I can walk into a pub
A demon too far for many
In the A.A, sobriety club.
Having said that
I struggled at the door
A mild panic attack
As my social skills
Are so poor.
Initially sat on my own
In non-playing team of one
Pretending I was here
Just to listen to the fun.
Too scared to jump in
With people I've never met
Imaginary happy
Inside I fret.
Then in through the door
Walks a football mate
Invites me to his table
Sorry he's late.
The couple with him are friendly
We get on alright
And as things turn out
It's an enoyable night.
We don't come first
Neither do we finish last
I really should try more of this
Shaking off my past.
Dulwich Poet 31st March 2014
( A local podcast, run by two chaps I know through football, held a quiz night last night, in a community owned pub. A football mate reminded me of it the day before, but when I got there he hadn't arrived. This is about the evening, which I enjoyed, but didn't think I would)
Life has still thrown me
A lucky deal.
For I was in a pub tonight
South London Hardcore Quiz
Even though I'm not that bright
In the Ivy House boozer
But with my scant knowledge
A certain loser.
Orange and lemonade
My drink of choice
The fact I'm here and sober
Is reason enough to rejoice.
Almost twelve years
Off the booze
I had nothing going for me
And so little to lose.
I'm genuinely lucky
I can walk into a pub
A demon too far for many
In the A.A, sobriety club.
Having said that
I struggled at the door
A mild panic attack
As my social skills
Are so poor.
Initially sat on my own
In non-playing team of one
Pretending I was here
Just to listen to the fun.
Too scared to jump in
With people I've never met
Imaginary happy
Inside I fret.
Then in through the door
Walks a football mate
Invites me to his table
Sorry he's late.
The couple with him are friendly
We get on alright
And as things turn out
It's an enoyable night.
We don't come first
Neither do we finish last
I really should try more of this
Shaking off my past.
Dulwich Poet 31st March 2014
( A local podcast, run by two chaps I know through football, held a quiz night last night, in a community owned pub. A football mate reminded me of it the day before, but when I got there he hadn't arrived. This is about the evening, which I enjoyed, but didn't think I would)
Saturday 29 March 2014
"Food Inglorious Food!"
Today was
Saturday morning.
With the 'luxury'
Of it being
My day off.
Tin of baked beans
With spicy Spanish chorizo
Accompanied by two
Greasy fried eggs
For my breakfast scoff.
Post-match boardroom
Food I don't touch
But it's free and I'm hungry
Thank you very much.
Some sort of curry and rice
A tad too much spice
But none the less
Surprisingly nice.
Homeward bound
Saving a pound
The reductions aisle
Making me smile
Two small pork pies
And mini savoury eggs
In a pack of twenty
Nibbling on the train home
Junk food aplenty.
When I finally get home
I'll be too lazy to cook
For more culinary crap
In the cupboard I'll look.
Some crisps of my favourite flavour
Walkers Worcester sauce
Is all I will have
For my evening main course.
And that's the reason
I'm so overweight
Handing myself an early death
On a junk food plate.
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2014
(I wrote this on the way home, I know I don't have a balanced diet, and this one sort of proves it!)
Saturday morning.
With the 'luxury'
Of it being
My day off.
Tin of baked beans
With spicy Spanish chorizo
Accompanied by two
Greasy fried eggs
For my breakfast scoff.
Post-match boardroom
Food I don't touch
But it's free and I'm hungry
Thank you very much.
Some sort of curry and rice
A tad too much spice
But none the less
Surprisingly nice.
Homeward bound
Saving a pound
The reductions aisle
Making me smile
Two small pork pies
And mini savoury eggs
In a pack of twenty
Nibbling on the train home
Junk food aplenty.
When I finally get home
I'll be too lazy to cook
For more culinary crap
In the cupboard I'll look.
Some crisps of my favourite flavour
Walkers Worcester sauce
Is all I will have
For my evening main course.
And that's the reason
I'm so overweight
Handing myself an early death
On a junk food plate.
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2014
(I wrote this on the way home, I know I don't have a balanced diet, and this one sort of proves it!)
"First Impressions"
There must have been
A spark of something
That caught my eye
Enough of a smidgen
To give you a try.
A brief look
At a poetry book
Was all it took.
Which is how I came to
Sit on this Central Line train
My head exploding
Really in pain.
I'm on the way home
Struggling to plough through
A boring old tome.
No wonder I've never
Had a lover
If I can't even judge a book
By its fucking cover!
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2014
(On the tube home, I'm reading a book I've borried from the Poetry Library. It's not the usual I can't get into this sort of thing. It really is hard work, to be honest, I think it's bloody awful!)
A spark of something
That caught my eye
Enough of a smidgen
To give you a try.
A brief look
At a poetry book
Was all it took.
Which is how I came to
Sit on this Central Line train
My head exploding
Really in pain.
I'm on the way home
Struggling to plough through
A boring old tome.
No wonder I've never
Had a lover
If I can't even judge a book
By its fucking cover!
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2014
(On the tube home, I'm reading a book I've borried from the Poetry Library. It's not the usual I can't get into this sort of thing. It really is hard work, to be honest, I think it's bloody awful!)
"Stones on a Roll"
One good thing
About being an old skool
Dinosaur of a fan
Is knowing, just knowing
That we are going
For certain
To lose today.
It will be a clash of styles
On and off the pitch
Their traditionalists
Screaming abuse at us
Thinking we're the
Nouveau leftie student rich.
I'm going more
In anticipation
Intrigued to see
How our fans cope
With their antagonisation.
Wealdstone are top of the table
And deservedly heading
Up to Conference South
They will go
Leaving us in the play-offs below.
It's seems half of the league
Say good riddance to them
But I speak as I find
I'm not one to condemn.
There's a fine line between passion
And mistaken for yobs
I've nothing wrong with foul-mouthed
Coming out of their gobs.
We all use 'Anglo-Saxon'
Especially in SE22
But that's no excuse to attack how we dress
Or wear Pink with our Blue.
Instead of trying
To wind us up rotten
Wouldn't it be great
If our differences
Were forgotten?
Lets just have
Two sets of fans
Passionately backing their team
With end to end football
That non-league fans like me
Crave for and dream.
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2014
(We were away to Wealdstone today, they were top of the table, and their fans have quite a bad reputation. Today they were superb, we drew 2-2, and outsung them! )
About being an old skool
Dinosaur of a fan
Is knowing, just knowing
That we are going
For certain
To lose today.
It will be a clash of styles
On and off the pitch
Their traditionalists
Screaming abuse at us
Thinking we're the
Nouveau leftie student rich.
I'm going more
In anticipation
Intrigued to see
How our fans cope
With their antagonisation.
Wealdstone are top of the table
And deservedly heading
Up to Conference South
They will go
Leaving us in the play-offs below.
It's seems half of the league
Say good riddance to them
But I speak as I find
I'm not one to condemn.
There's a fine line between passion
And mistaken for yobs
I've nothing wrong with foul-mouthed
Coming out of their gobs.
We all use 'Anglo-Saxon'
Especially in SE22
But that's no excuse to attack how we dress
Or wear Pink with our Blue.
Instead of trying
To wind us up rotten
Wouldn't it be great
If our differences
Were forgotten?
Lets just have
Two sets of fans
Passionately backing their team
With end to end football
That non-league fans like me
Crave for and dream.
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2014
(We were away to Wealdstone today, they were top of the table, and their fans have quite a bad reputation. Today they were superb, we drew 2-2, and outsung them! )
"Sexy Hopper"
I'm on my way
To Wealdstone
And I know
What will make my day.
Three points will be a bonus
If you're here today!
I know you're straight
You know I'm gay
But I'll always fantasise
If you decide to stray!
You have everything
That I have not
The youth, the looks
The smile...the lot!
I wish I could
Turn the clock back
And start my life again
Instead of feeling
It's been wasted
And nearing its end.
I take comfort
From the fact
You're not spooked
By how I feel
Even though my desires
Are one hundred per cent real.
You're a young lad who
Doesn't make me feel bad
For who I am
Knowing I've a crush on you
Not giving a damn!
The fact I've just got you
As a football mate
That's good enough for me
And really great.
It's best that way really
For if my dream came true
I'd probably be so nervous
Not knowing what to do!
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2013
(A groundhopping friend of mine said he might go to Wealdstone today....sadly he wasn't there! Trust me...he's really cute!)
To Wealdstone
And I know
What will make my day.
Three points will be a bonus
If you're here today!
I know you're straight
You know I'm gay
But I'll always fantasise
If you decide to stray!
You have everything
That I have not
The youth, the looks
The smile...the lot!
I wish I could
Turn the clock back
And start my life again
Instead of feeling
It's been wasted
And nearing its end.
I take comfort
From the fact
You're not spooked
By how I feel
Even though my desires
Are one hundred per cent real.
You're a young lad who
Doesn't make me feel bad
For who I am
Knowing I've a crush on you
Not giving a damn!
The fact I've just got you
As a football mate
That's good enough for me
And really great.
It's best that way really
For if my dream came true
I'd probably be so nervous
Not knowing what to do!
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2013
(A groundhopping friend of mine said he might go to Wealdstone today....sadly he wasn't there! Trust me...he's really cute!)
"Such A Giveaway"
There you go again
Such a faux pas
On a London tube train.
That 'open' door button
Looks so inviting to press
But it's only there for show
Causing you stress.
Put there to make you stick out
Like a sore thumb
You couldn't be more
Stereotype stupid Northern
If you went 'Ee-Bye-Gum!'
Still how were you to know..
It's not a sin
And it makes me chuckle
As I break into a grin.
Unlike on the old trains
That went to Wembley Park
With those straps to hang on
Which were such a lark.
From the ceiling
Like mini punch bags
You couldn't resist
Giving them a little whack
When you were all pissed.
Such witty northern wags
Should you were Joe Bugner
Or Muhammed Ali
Confirming the fact that
All northerners are
Stupid to me.
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2014
(Someone tried to push the 'open' button on the tube today. Londoners know they are pointless, as they don't work. But tourists and northerners don't. It reminded me of northern fans on the tube on old Cup Final days past, or going to England internationals at the old Wembley, many years ago)
Such a faux pas
On a London tube train.
That 'open' door button
Looks so inviting to press
But it's only there for show
Causing you stress.
Put there to make you stick out
Like a sore thumb
You couldn't be more
Stereotype stupid Northern
If you went 'Ee-Bye-Gum!'
Still how were you to know..
It's not a sin
And it makes me chuckle
As I break into a grin.
Unlike on the old trains
That went to Wembley Park
With those straps to hang on
Which were such a lark.
From the ceiling
Like mini punch bags
You couldn't resist
Giving them a little whack
When you were all pissed.
Such witty northern wags
Should you were Joe Bugner
Or Muhammed Ali
Confirming the fact that
All northerners are
Stupid to me.
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2014
(Someone tried to push the 'open' button on the tube today. Londoners know they are pointless, as they don't work. But tourists and northerners don't. It reminded me of northern fans on the tube on old Cup Final days past, or going to England internationals at the old Wembley, many years ago)
"Wanting To Make A Tit Of Yourself"
I can't help
But notice you
Sitting on the other side
Of my short
London Overground ride.
Well not actually 'you'
More those huge mounds of flesh
Squeezing out of your
Two sizes too small
Summery blue top
Just because the mercury
Has nudged above
Seventy degrees.
Hand on heart
I'm not getting any hotter
I'd rather cop a feel
Of the young lad
By the doors
Get down and kneel
Undo his belt then
Rip down his zip.
Certainly does more for me
Than her big breasts ever will.
But still...
I have to say
Despite being gay
One day
I'd love to play
With a bouncing pair of boobs!
I can't help wondering
If this is a throwback
To being a Seventies boy
When gathering round
Page Three in the playground
Was our little joy.
Laughing along with your mate
Far too young to ejaculate.
I've got no real fixation
On girlie tits
For further down below
I'm into manly bits.
Maybe I was brainwashed
Staring at Samantha Fox
I pined for my mates cocks.
As I got a little older
I wish I'd been bolder
And tried to play with the boys
Before they discovered real girls
Were their best toys.
That guilt and fear stopped me
Going or a grope
So scared of being called a poof
I lost all hope.
I always known I've preferred men
Even if I pretended to like breast then.
So how weird is it
To want a titty-wank
For that strange thought
I've got Rupert Murdoch to thank.
Maybe the answer's
One of those girls
Saving for Brazil
The one's who are pre-op
And can stil lgive me a thrill.
Plenty to enjoy
Down below
Then I can move upstairs
To finish the show!
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2014
(On the train today there was a woman opposite, with big tits in tight top. Despite knowing I'm gay and not being attracted to women, one thing I 'miss', if that's the right word, about being gay, is not being able to fondle a nice pair of breasts...)
But notice you
Sitting on the other side
Of my short
London Overground ride.
Well not actually 'you'
More those huge mounds of flesh
Squeezing out of your
Two sizes too small
Summery blue top
Just because the mercury
Has nudged above
Seventy degrees.
Hand on heart
I'm not getting any hotter
I'd rather cop a feel
Of the young lad
By the doors
Get down and kneel
Undo his belt then
Rip down his zip.
Certainly does more for me
Than her big breasts ever will.
But still...
I have to say
Despite being gay
One day
I'd love to play
With a bouncing pair of boobs!
I can't help wondering
If this is a throwback
To being a Seventies boy
When gathering round
Page Three in the playground
Was our little joy.
Laughing along with your mate
Far too young to ejaculate.
I've got no real fixation
On girlie tits
For further down below
I'm into manly bits.
Maybe I was brainwashed
Staring at Samantha Fox
I pined for my mates cocks.
As I got a little older
I wish I'd been bolder
And tried to play with the boys
Before they discovered real girls
Were their best toys.
That guilt and fear stopped me
Going or a grope
So scared of being called a poof
I lost all hope.
I always known I've preferred men
Even if I pretended to like breast then.
So how weird is it
To want a titty-wank
For that strange thought
I've got Rupert Murdoch to thank.
Maybe the answer's
One of those girls
Saving for Brazil
The one's who are pre-op
And can stil lgive me a thrill.
Plenty to enjoy
Down below
Then I can move upstairs
To finish the show!
Dulwich Poet 29th March 2014
(On the train today there was a woman opposite, with big tits in tight top. Despite knowing I'm gay and not being attracted to women, one thing I 'miss', if that's the right word, about being gay, is not being able to fondle a nice pair of breasts...)
Tuesday 25 March 2014
"Johnny Foreigner"
They come over here
And take our jobs!
Why do people not think
Before they open their gobs?
Who do you think
Picks the fruit
That ends up in your market square
Or tarmac the roads
For deliveries to get there?
Who cleans the trains
Morning, noon and night
Only for you to dump more rubbish
Cos you don't give a shite?
It's never a honkie
English born
It's always those bloody foreigners
Trying to earn their corn.
Who is who takes three cleaning jobs
Just to have a roof over their head
Skivvying around
Where you wouldn't be seen dead?
It's those nasty immigrants
Enough is enough!
But how can that be true
As you find their jobs too tough?
If I were my own boss
I'd hire a foreign Pole
Rather than a lazy racist Jeremy Kyle wannabe
Sat on the dole.
It's immigration
That makes London tick
Albeit helping the Tory & UKIP boys
To get rich quick.
They don't actually believe
The racist shit they say
Because it's those bloody immigrants
That work hard for low pay.
Cash in hand making it tax free
The rich ruling classes
Raping their own economy.
Where would they be
Without their Philipino maid
A legalised version
Of the old slave trade.
Double standards
From the ruling classes
Who bullshit drips down
To our feckless on their arses!
Dulwich Poet 25th March 2014
(I wrote this in response to the Lib-Dem Nick Clegg having a live radio debate with Nigal Farage, of UKIP, on the radio, about europe...but in reality..immigration)
And take our jobs!
Why do people not think
Before they open their gobs?
Who do you think
Picks the fruit
That ends up in your market square
Or tarmac the roads
For deliveries to get there?
Who cleans the trains
Morning, noon and night
Only for you to dump more rubbish
Cos you don't give a shite?
It's never a honkie
English born
It's always those bloody foreigners
Trying to earn their corn.
Who is who takes three cleaning jobs
Just to have a roof over their head
Skivvying around
Where you wouldn't be seen dead?
It's those nasty immigrants
Enough is enough!
But how can that be true
As you find their jobs too tough?
If I were my own boss
I'd hire a foreign Pole
Rather than a lazy racist Jeremy Kyle wannabe
Sat on the dole.
It's immigration
That makes London tick
Albeit helping the Tory & UKIP boys
To get rich quick.
They don't actually believe
The racist shit they say
Because it's those bloody immigrants
That work hard for low pay.
Cash in hand making it tax free
The rich ruling classes
Raping their own economy.
Where would they be
Without their Philipino maid
A legalised version
Of the old slave trade.
Double standards
From the ruling classes
Who bullshit drips down
To our feckless on their arses!
Dulwich Poet 25th March 2014
(I wrote this in response to the Lib-Dem Nick Clegg having a live radio debate with Nigal Farage, of UKIP, on the radio, about europe...but in reality..immigration)
Sunday 23 March 2014
"Bush Whacking Off!"
Breaking into
Peckham Rye Park
More like a gap in the fence
To have a lark.
Desperate times
Call for desperate measures
Texting a closet straight bloke
For your pleasures.
He not a looker
You'd hardly go 'Phwoar!'
As old and beer bellied as me
But I message for more.
Being animalistic
Short and sweet
The only reason
As to why we meet.
On my knees
I'll happily swallow
Where I go
He will follow.
Simple pleasure
At our leisure.
Basic sex
Nothing to treasure.
Still so much better
Than a wank on your Jacks
Which is why we're in the bushes
Following well worn tracks.
Truth be told
Beggars can't be choosers
I'm not just getting old
I'm one of lifes losers.
So desperate open air sex
Is fine with me
Even in the pitch black dark
Against the back of a tree.
Dulwich Poet 24th March 2014
(A bloke I've known since I was a teenager. He's 'straight' but likes messing about with other blokes. I bumped into him a few months ago, & texted him last Sunday, which was the first time we'd had open air sex in Peckham Rye Park, after it was shut.)
Peckham Rye Park
More like a gap in the fence
To have a lark.
Desperate times
Call for desperate measures
Texting a closet straight bloke
For your pleasures.
He not a looker
You'd hardly go 'Phwoar!'
As old and beer bellied as me
But I message for more.
Being animalistic
Short and sweet
The only reason
As to why we meet.
On my knees
I'll happily swallow
Where I go
He will follow.
Simple pleasure
At our leisure.
Basic sex
Nothing to treasure.
Still so much better
Than a wank on your Jacks
Which is why we're in the bushes
Following well worn tracks.
Truth be told
Beggars can't be choosers
I'm not just getting old
I'm one of lifes losers.
So desperate open air sex
Is fine with me
Even in the pitch black dark
Against the back of a tree.
Dulwich Poet 24th March 2014
(A bloke I've known since I was a teenager. He's 'straight' but likes messing about with other blokes. I bumped into him a few months ago, & texted him last Sunday, which was the first time we'd had open air sex in Peckham Rye Park, after it was shut.)
Friday 21 March 2014
"Today's What?"
There are some dates
You never forget
Like your own birthday.
Or Christmas.
The 30th of July:
World Cup in 1966 and
Planning permission
For our new ground
In nineteen ninety.
And then there's the glorious
Boxing Day of 1984
An Orwellian performance
in a six one thrashing
Of the Thugs & Muggers
At Champion Hill
Where we totally
Controlled them.
Others you can't recall
The actual date
But know they exist.
Talk Like A Pirate Day
Bollocks to that...
What kind of weirdo
Do you think I am?
Rhetorically speaking, naturally.
No need to actually answer.
Or National No Smoking Day
Which must be double depressing
If you roll your own tabs
And say it in a Geordie accent.
Drink Awareness Week.
A whole seven days of hell
Counting your units.
And then there's today.
Common Courtesy Day
Bollocks to that
And Puppy Day
Ideal for Korean barbeques.
It's also Single Parent's Day.
No good for me
Both of mine are long dead.
The one that's probably passed you by
No run of the mill national event this
No, I'm not taking the piss
Today is, was, should be, whatever...
It genuinely is World Poetry Day!
News to me too.
So this is my belated contribution.
Which isn't a lot.
But don't knock it.
Fifteen minutes killed writing it.
Made a change from
Reading this morning's 'Metro'
On the bus home.
Dulwich Poet 21st March 2014
(Yes, today was World Poetry Day. I only realised when someone mentioned in a post on Facebook)
You never forget
Like your own birthday.
Or Christmas.
The 30th of July:
World Cup in 1966 and
Planning permission
For our new ground
In nineteen ninety.
And then there's the glorious
Boxing Day of 1984
An Orwellian performance
in a six one thrashing
Of the Thugs & Muggers
At Champion Hill
Where we totally
Controlled them.
Others you can't recall
The actual date
But know they exist.
Talk Like A Pirate Day
Bollocks to that...
What kind of weirdo
Do you think I am?
Rhetorically speaking, naturally.
No need to actually answer.
Or National No Smoking Day
Which must be double depressing
If you roll your own tabs
And say it in a Geordie accent.
Drink Awareness Week.
A whole seven days of hell
Counting your units.
And then there's today.
Common Courtesy Day
Bollocks to that
And Puppy Day
Ideal for Korean barbeques.
It's also Single Parent's Day.
No good for me
Both of mine are long dead.
The one that's probably passed you by
No run of the mill national event this
No, I'm not taking the piss
Today is, was, should be, whatever...
It genuinely is World Poetry Day!
News to me too.
So this is my belated contribution.
Which isn't a lot.
But don't knock it.
Fifteen minutes killed writing it.
Made a change from
Reading this morning's 'Metro'
On the bus home.
Dulwich Poet 21st March 2014
(Yes, today was World Poetry Day. I only realised when someone mentioned in a post on Facebook)
Wednesday 19 March 2014
"The Real Thing"
Are you really interested?
Well seeing as you
Were nice enough to ask
I shall tell you exactly
What I did last night.
I saw a football match.
A proper one
In the flesh.
And by that I mean
Not one down the pub
Watching a fading glory
Post-Sir Alex
Manchester United
At their self proclaimed
Theatre of Dreams
Rescuing the remnants
Of their season
Which has been a failure
Within reason
From the comfort
Of a bar stool
At the local pub
A mere million and one
Proverbial miles from Manchester.
I was the only fan
To see Phil Wilson
Make his comeback from injury
Our collusus of a keeper
Squeezing into his shirt
Gracing the hallowed dirt
Of Theobalds Lane.
Capital League football
On the edge of the capital.
They say you must be crazy
To support a non-league team.
As a lifelong fan
Of the mighty Dulwich Hamlet
I concede I will give you that.
Just as "Don't you wish
Your keeper was Phil Wilson"
As we sing behind the goal
(But not tonight
As I don't do solos)
Conceded a second half equaliser...
In a Reserve Team match.
Did I not mention
This was the Stiffs
I went to see
Up at Cheshunt?
I concede that's not crazy...
That's mental!
Dulwich Poet 19th March 2014
(I wrote this on the way home from Cheshunt reserves 1, Dulwich Hamlet Reserves 1. It came about from the simple thought of how I would reply if someone from work tomorrow were to generally enquire as to what I did on my day off...)
Well seeing as you
Were nice enough to ask
I shall tell you exactly
What I did last night.
I saw a football match.
A proper one
In the flesh.
And by that I mean
Not one down the pub
Watching a fading glory
Post-Sir Alex
Manchester United
At their self proclaimed
Theatre of Dreams
Rescuing the remnants
Of their season
Which has been a failure
Within reason
From the comfort
Of a bar stool
At the local pub
A mere million and one
Proverbial miles from Manchester.
I was the only fan
To see Phil Wilson
Make his comeback from injury
Our collusus of a keeper
Squeezing into his shirt
Gracing the hallowed dirt
Of Theobalds Lane.
Capital League football
On the edge of the capital.
They say you must be crazy
To support a non-league team.
As a lifelong fan
Of the mighty Dulwich Hamlet
I concede I will give you that.
Just as "Don't you wish
Your keeper was Phil Wilson"
As we sing behind the goal
(But not tonight
As I don't do solos)
Conceded a second half equaliser...
In a Reserve Team match.
Did I not mention
This was the Stiffs
I went to see
Up at Cheshunt?
I concede that's not crazy...
That's mental!
Dulwich Poet 19th March 2014
(I wrote this on the way home from Cheshunt reserves 1, Dulwich Hamlet Reserves 1. It came about from the simple thought of how I would reply if someone from work tomorrow were to generally enquire as to what I did on my day off...)
"Fleeting"
Ping!
Goes an idea
For a milli-moment
Of a nano-second.
Whatever that is.
As quick as it came
It's gone...
Forever!
Such are the frustrations
Of poetry.
What you are reading now
Is what I can only call
The booby prize.
Dulwich Poet 19th March 2014
(Again...I had an idea in my head for a poem, and instead of jotting down a few words to remind me what it was I don't bother. Then, only a few minutes later, it's gone. I try to recall, but the idea is lost forever.)
Goes an idea
For a milli-moment
Of a nano-second.
Whatever that is.
As quick as it came
It's gone...
Forever!
Such are the frustrations
Of poetry.
What you are reading now
Is what I can only call
The booby prize.
Dulwich Poet 19th March 2014
(Again...I had an idea in my head for a poem, and instead of jotting down a few words to remind me what it was I don't bother. Then, only a few minutes later, it's gone. I try to recall, but the idea is lost forever.)
"Voting Patterns"
Would a turkey
Vote for christmas?
What would they say?
Gobble, gobble, gobble.
Gobble, gobble...swallow.
Licking my lips
I know what
I'm thinking.
If ever I was
On Death Row
Choosing my last meal
I'll save the turkey
And opt for a liquid lunch.
Gobble, gobble, gobble!
Dulwich Poet 19th March 2014
(I read a poem called 'Christmas' in a book by Clive Murphy, called 'Cave Canem'; which I borrowed from the Poetry Library. This poem is what came into my head!)
Vote for christmas?
What would they say?
Gobble, gobble, gobble.
Gobble, gobble...swallow.
Licking my lips
I know what
I'm thinking.
If ever I was
On Death Row
Choosing my last meal
I'll save the turkey
And opt for a liquid lunch.
Gobble, gobble, gobble!
Dulwich Poet 19th March 2014
(I read a poem called 'Christmas' in a book by Clive Murphy, called 'Cave Canem'; which I borrowed from the Poetry Library. This poem is what came into my head!)
Tuesday 18 March 2014
"Choices"
Irish pub or gay bar?
Well that depends
On the spelling.
What sort of 'craic'
Are you looking for?
Dulwich Poet 18th March 2014
(So where did you celebrate St. Patrick's Day yesterday? ... )
Well that depends
On the spelling.
What sort of 'craic'
Are you looking for?
Dulwich Poet 18th March 2014
(So where did you celebrate St. Patrick's Day yesterday? ... )
"Fantasy Island"
Such a pity
That the midget Tattoo
Is no longer around.
Malaysian Airlines
Would love him.
For I'd bet you
A penny to a pound
Put him on a deserted beach
And within a minute or two
He'd shout out at you
"Boss! Da Plane!"
Problem solved...
Dulwich Poet 18th March 2014
(A Malaysian Airlines plane vanished, supposedly into thin air, on a flight to China. Despite a vast search there has been no sightings, or recovery of any wreckage, a week later. At the moment a complete mystery)
That the midget Tattoo
Is no longer around.
Malaysian Airlines
Would love him.
For I'd bet you
A penny to a pound
Put him on a deserted beach
And within a minute or two
He'd shout out at you
"Boss! Da Plane!"
Problem solved...
Dulwich Poet 18th March 2014
(A Malaysian Airlines plane vanished, supposedly into thin air, on a flight to China. Despite a vast search there has been no sightings, or recovery of any wreckage, a week later. At the moment a complete mystery)
Monday 17 March 2014
"Boys In Green"
Today's the day
All England
Comes out to play
To be sure, to be sure
You know the score.
Nothing wrong with being a Mick
My only English beef
Is with those
Who get their kick
Suddenly being Oirish
One day of the year
As if you need an excuse
To drink some beer.
Belting out the Irish Rover
Just before you topple over
Guinness being your tipple of choice
For your attempt at crooning
In a Jim Davidson fake Paddy voice.
Corporate tifter tat on your head
In which your genuine Irish
Wouldn't be seen dead.
Not knowing your Kilkenny
From your Cork
You might know Danny Boy
But can't talk the talk.
You're no better than
An armchair Man. United fan
Whose professed love from Surrey
Is a total sham.
A small bit of credit
You're just out to have fun
Isn't that what life's about
All said and done?
Better than calling for
Our own English national day
Bleating it would upset immigrants
So we can't have our way.
On second thoughts
I'd rather wear a Guinness hat
Than share our St. Georges'
With racist prats.
Dulwich Poet 17th March 2014
(I have nothing against St. Patricks Day, nor the fact it is celebrated in our country. there are many Irish people, who have been forced to live in our country, by economic neccessity, some by choice as well. But I cannot stand people making idiots of themselves by pretending to celebrate the occassion when the closest they have ever come to having any Irish ancestry is by having put on a bet or two in the past at 'Paddy Power'!)
All England
Comes out to play
To be sure, to be sure
You know the score.
Nothing wrong with being a Mick
My only English beef
Is with those
Who get their kick
Suddenly being Oirish
One day of the year
As if you need an excuse
To drink some beer.
Belting out the Irish Rover
Just before you topple over
Guinness being your tipple of choice
For your attempt at crooning
In a Jim Davidson fake Paddy voice.
Corporate tifter tat on your head
In which your genuine Irish
Wouldn't be seen dead.
Not knowing your Kilkenny
From your Cork
You might know Danny Boy
But can't talk the talk.
You're no better than
An armchair Man. United fan
Whose professed love from Surrey
Is a total sham.
A small bit of credit
You're just out to have fun
Isn't that what life's about
All said and done?
Better than calling for
Our own English national day
Bleating it would upset immigrants
So we can't have our way.
On second thoughts
I'd rather wear a Guinness hat
Than share our St. Georges'
With racist prats.
Dulwich Poet 17th March 2014
(I have nothing against St. Patricks Day, nor the fact it is celebrated in our country. there are many Irish people, who have been forced to live in our country, by economic neccessity, some by choice as well. But I cannot stand people making idiots of themselves by pretending to celebrate the occassion when the closest they have ever come to having any Irish ancestry is by having put on a bet or two in the past at 'Paddy Power'!)
"Shocking News"
Sometimes
When you go abroard
There's no time
For news from back home.
Always the same
Wherever I roam.
The papers are free
But in Flemish or French
Only fit to line a dossers pew
On a foreign park bench.
My phone's for phoning
And the camera's for pics
I've none of those gadgets
With a million and one tricks.
Seven hours from Brussels
After a week away
At Victoria station
Grab the Standard and Metro
To see what's happened today.
I'm going into shock
I feel like crying
That can't be true
Bob Crow dying!
Right wing press pretend to mourn
Tory politicians hypocritally fawn.
For me it's the end of a era
Demise of our proud unions
Just got a step nearer.
They said train drivers were greedy
Striking at the drop of a hat
In reality
Fighting for work and conditions
Which were not all that.
Just like his football team
No-one liked him
But he didn't care
The Lion of the Left
Who drove Tories to despair.
Proud to be of council house stock.
Standing firm solid as a rock.
A working class hero
In the way it was meant
Unlike the dead Beatle
Who chose to flee
Not a man of the people
But an exile overseas.
Never believe the lies
Of union greed
It's the R.M.T. unity
The rest of us need.
To a train drivers wage
We should all aspire
Looking onward and upwards
Raising our standards higher.
A principled man
Who never sold out
Whose strength in attack
Gave his members such clout.
Granted he earned a huge wage
But not compared
To fat cats in suits
For all their nasty smears
He didn't give two hoots.
If it were not for strong men
Like Bob who stood firm as one
The right to a decent rail wage
Would never have begun
All concessions won in the past
Would have been chipped away
And there'd just be the bare minimum wage
In their non-unionised pay.
Couple that with
Non existent safety checks
And I dread to think
How many dead in train wrecks.
Sticking to his beliefs
Rather than selling his soul
Living proof of whan you can achieve
With socialism your goal.
Farwell Bob Crow
A giant among men
I doubt if we'll see
Your like ever again.
Taking comfort from
I'm gutted inside
But as a solid trade unionist
You fill me with pride.
Dulwich Poet 17th March 2014
(I had a week away in Belgium, when I got back last Wednesday I picked up a couple of free papers, sat down on my train home & read that Bob Crow, leader of the .R.M.T. union & a Millwall fan as well, had died the day before, aged only 52. He was a true hero of mine)
When you go abroard
There's no time
For news from back home.
Always the same
Wherever I roam.
The papers are free
But in Flemish or French
Only fit to line a dossers pew
On a foreign park bench.
My phone's for phoning
And the camera's for pics
I've none of those gadgets
With a million and one tricks.
Seven hours from Brussels
After a week away
At Victoria station
Grab the Standard and Metro
To see what's happened today.
I'm going into shock
I feel like crying
That can't be true
Bob Crow dying!
Right wing press pretend to mourn
Tory politicians hypocritally fawn.
For me it's the end of a era
Demise of our proud unions
Just got a step nearer.
They said train drivers were greedy
Striking at the drop of a hat
In reality
Fighting for work and conditions
Which were not all that.
Just like his football team
No-one liked him
But he didn't care
The Lion of the Left
Who drove Tories to despair.
Proud to be of council house stock.
Standing firm solid as a rock.
A working class hero
In the way it was meant
Unlike the dead Beatle
Who chose to flee
Not a man of the people
But an exile overseas.
Never believe the lies
Of union greed
It's the R.M.T. unity
The rest of us need.
To a train drivers wage
We should all aspire
Looking onward and upwards
Raising our standards higher.
A principled man
Who never sold out
Whose strength in attack
Gave his members such clout.
Granted he earned a huge wage
But not compared
To fat cats in suits
For all their nasty smears
He didn't give two hoots.
If it were not for strong men
Like Bob who stood firm as one
The right to a decent rail wage
Would never have begun
All concessions won in the past
Would have been chipped away
And there'd just be the bare minimum wage
In their non-unionised pay.
Couple that with
Non existent safety checks
And I dread to think
How many dead in train wrecks.
Sticking to his beliefs
Rather than selling his soul
Living proof of whan you can achieve
With socialism your goal.
Farwell Bob Crow
A giant among men
I doubt if we'll see
Your like ever again.
Taking comfort from
I'm gutted inside
But as a solid trade unionist
You fill me with pride.
Dulwich Poet 17th March 2014
(I had a week away in Belgium, when I got back last Wednesday I picked up a couple of free papers, sat down on my train home & read that Bob Crow, leader of the .R.M.T. union & a Millwall fan as well, had died the day before, aged only 52. He was a true hero of mine)
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