I went to a reading last Saturday week,
Of poetry, prose and of verse.
For the lass that I love is a poetry fan.
Some things, I suppose, could be worse.
The poet in charge was an odd-looking cove.
With blue-tinted specs on his nose,
And a pink chiffon scarf tied tight ‘round his neck.
For added effect I suppose.
This soirée was held in a room at The Bull.
A place of some doubtful repute.
Where T-shirts prevailed, and I swear I smelt puff.
I felt over-dressed in my suit.
Chief poet stood up to announce the first turn
“Some poetry sapphic this time”.
He droned on and on, with ‘is dark gloomy poem,
And never once got it to rhyme.
With a pint in his hand, and froth on his ‘tash,
And his free hand scratching his groin.
‘E told of King Bill and some Fenian lads,
Who’d had a big scrap on the Boyne.
Next blue-specs comes back, with a grin for my lass.
Smiling, and saying he’d treat her,
“To frolics and fun, and tales tenderly told,
In clear am-phi-bra-chic meter”.
A woman was perched on the edge of a stool,
In jeans with some holes in the knee.
“There was a young lady of Warwick” she starts.
Seemed just like a Lim’rick to me.
Then some soldiers came in, from a room next door.
And asked “Can we join in the fun?”
They did “Eskimo Nell” and old “Piddlin’ Pete”
Then encored with “Nelly the Nun”.
Poor poetry bloke, he was getting quite miffed.
Miff showing all over his mush.
For people were cheering and clapping their hands,
And poet kept shouting for hush.
With a shrug and a grin, the poet gave in.
He’d lost all sense of decorum
As folks thanked the lads for kindly performing,
This forces poetry for ‘em.
The night was not all a resounding success.
Me drinking strong ale by the yard.
At chucking-out time I quite suddenly found,
My lass had gone home. With the bard!