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22 hours ago, Phil said:

Timothy Winters'

Timothy Winters comes to school With eyes as wide as a football-pool, Ears like bombs and teeth like splinters: A blitz of a boy is Timothy Winters.

His belly is white, his neck is dark, And his hair is an exclamation-mark. His clothes are enough to scare a crow And through his britches the blue winds blow.

When teacher talks he won't hear a word And he shoots down dead the arithmetic-bird, He licks the pattern off his plate And he's not even heard of the Welfare State.

Timothy Winters has bloody feet And he lives in a house on Suez Street, He sleeps in a sack on the kitchen floor And they say there aren't boys like him anymore.

Old Man Winters likes his beer And his missus ran off with a bombardier, Grandma sits in the grate with a gin And Timothy's dosed with an aspirin.

The welfare Worker lies awake But the law's as tricky as a ten-foot snake, So Timothy Winters drinks his cup And slowly goes on growing up.

At Morning Prayers the Master helves for children less fortunate than ourselves, And the loudest response in the room is when Timothy Winters roars "Amen!"

So come one angel, come on ten Timothy Winters says "Amen Amen amen amen amen." Timothy Winters, Lord. Amen

Charles Causley

That one just hits too close to home!

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1 hour ago, Kayakman said:

That one just hits too close to home!

Causley was a teacher and "Timothy Winters" was based on a real boy. His best poem, in my and many other's opinions, is Eden Rock:

https://www.poetryarchive.org/poem/eden-rock

 

 

 

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"I am the avenging angel; I come with wings unfurled, I come with claws extended from halfway round the world. I am the God Almighty, I am the howling wind. I care not for your family; I care not for your kin. I come in search of terror, though terror is my own; I come in search of vengeance for crimes and crimes unknown. I care not for your children, I care not for your wives, I care not for your country, I care not for your lives." - (c) Jim Boyes - "The Avenging Angel"

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4 hours ago, tim2 said:

Causley was a teacher and "Timothy Winters" was based on a real boy. His best poem, in my and many other's opinions, is Eden Rock:

https://www.poetryarchive.org/poem/eden-rock

 

 

 

I like his Innocent's Song, about King Herod.  Well, I say 'like', but in a way it is rather scary!

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Harold’s Leap

Stevie Smith

Harold, are you asleep?
Harold, I remember your leap,
It may have killed you
But it was a brave thing to do.
Two promontories ran high into the sky,
And fell to the sea's smother.
Harold was always afraid to climb high,
But something urged him on,
He felt he should try.
I would not say that he was wrong,
Although he succeeded in doing nothing but die.
Would you?
Ever after that steep
Place was called Harold's Leap.
It was a brave thing to do.

Edited by Phil

"Freedom without socialism is privilege and injustice, socialism without freedom is slavery and brutality" - Mikhail Bakunin

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6 hours ago, Wiltshire Warrior Dragon said:

I like his Innocent's Song, about King Herod.  Well, I say 'like', but in a way it is rather scary!

We reckoned the first few lines foretold Jimmy Saville

 


"I am the avenging angel; I come with wings unfurled, I come with claws extended from halfway round the world. I am the God Almighty, I am the howling wind. I care not for your family; I care not for your kin. I come in search of terror, though terror is my own; I come in search of vengeance for crimes and crimes unknown. I care not for your children, I care not for your wives, I care not for your country, I care not for your lives." - (c) Jim Boyes - "The Avenging Angel"

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I like the poetry of Wendy Cope, which suddenly began to appeal to me when I finally realised that I may not be immortal after all.

She writes whimsical poetry, mainly about relationships when you're past the first flush of youth.

This simple poem is entitled 'Another Valentine', and it is obviously appropriate today.

Today we are obliged to be romantic
And think of yet another valentine.
We know the rules and we are both pedantic:
Today's the day we have to be romantic.
Our love is old and sure, not new and frantic.
You know I'm yours and I know you are mine.
And saying that has made me feel romantic,
My dearest love, my darling valentine. 

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No mention of England's greatest living poet on here yet, so here you go....

AKROYD’S FUNERAL

It was dark as a coal-hole picnic
On the day Grandad Akroyd dropped dead;
Work was scarce as rocking-horse droppings,
Not a church roof for miles had lead.

So cold that the flame on the candle,
Got frozen one Wednesday night,
And we had to warm it up in the oven
Before we could get it to light.

Some brass monkeys outside sung carols soprano,
You could ‘ear ’em cursin’ and swearin’,
As they wandered ’round lost in the cold and the frost
They couldn’t find their bearings.

On Sunday our chicken for dinner
Was a pigeon from off next door’s loft.
And me Dad pumped it up with his bike pump, too hard
And our Sunday dinner buggered off.

‘What would you like to eat now, Dad?’
Said our Mam, picking her nose,
‘Hard boiled eggs,’ our Dad said,
‘You can’t get your fingers in those.’

We couldn’t afford to kill t’ chicken,
So we boiled some water up hot,
And with bunches of dried peas tied to its knees,
It Paddled about on the top.

Me Grandad had mortgaged his pension
‘Til 1994,
While me Gran in her vest, was outside doing her best,
With a red light above t’coal shed door.

‘I can’t stand’t no more,’ the old man cried,
A mad light shone in his glass eye,
‘We’ll have to defraud the insurance man
Hands up, I want a volunteer to die.’

Mam said she would have, but she were too busy,
Our Albert said his library book was due back,
Gran said she would but her and her mate,
Had got tickets for last Saturday’s match.

So we drew straws to settle the matter,
But there was never no doubt,
‘Cos me Dad cut me Grandad’s in haIf wi’t’ bread-knife,
Just as he was pulling it out.

I’m too old to die,’ he said, using the cat
As a club to belabour me Dad,
‘All right,’ me Dad says, ‘you don’t have to die…
Just lie down and pretend as you are.’

So me Grandad lay down on the hearth-rug,
And we called the doctor in.
Gran took out a bottle and glasses,
And got him smashed on her dandelion gin.

He said me Grandad had died of a very rare disease,
A bad case of tropical frostbite,
Then he staggered off out and we all heard a shout
From the street ‘cos he slipped in some dog .

Our Billy ran round for the Man from the Pru,
Gran filled him with dandelion gin,
He paid £4.10 in used chipshop yen
And said, ‘When are you burying him?’

‘Oh, We weren’t thinking of burying him,’ Grandma said,
‘Thinking of having stuffed meself,
Or embalming him in Plasticraft,
And keeping him on’t mantelshelf.’

‘Nay, yon is illegal,’ said Man from Pru.
‘Grandad will have to be buried,
In a box and shroud in constipated ground.’
At this Grandad looked reet worried.

The Man from the Pru’ said he’d come to the burying
And see as how things were done quite right,
Then he staggered off out and we all heard a shout
From the street ‘cos he slipped on that stuff that I told
you about before.

‘I’ve just done that, ‘said the doctor,
So the insuranceman rubbed his nose in it.

So the pretend corpse now had to be buried,
Me Dad got an old kipper crate,
When the holes got plugged and the wood it looked good
With plastic brass handles on – great.

‘We’ll only bury you just till he’s gone,
Then we’ll dig you up, honest,’ Dad said.
It took a bottle of gin before Grandad gave in
And lay int’ box to play dead.

Me Gran looked down at the box saying, ‘What a lovely corpse.’
Tears fell on her dripping and toast,
When the body at rest shoved his hand up her vest, saying
‘Now then, how’s that for a ghost?’

So we put the box on big Mabel’s coal cart
And off to t’cemetery we set,
We followed on bikes and all seemed quite right
Until another burying we met.

A policeman was stood on point duty,
‘Cos there was a fault on the traffic lights,
But he fell to the ground with his arms flaying round
‘Cos’ he slipped on the road on another load of that stuff I was
telling you about before.

‘We just done that,’ said the doctor and the insurance man,
So the policeman rubbed their noses in it.

As he spun on the ground the traffic flew round,
And the two buryings got in a jam,
Their driver took a poke at me Dad wi’ a wrench
And got a kick up the shoemaker’s off me Mam.

When we sorted it out we’d got the wrong box;
Grandma said, ‘Ee, we won’t see no more of him,’
When their driver come round our burying we found
Had gone to the crematorium.

By the time that we got there the service was done,
You could hear the organ play.
As the congregation wept hankies and sniffed,
And our kipper box was on its way.

The shutters were open, we all heard the flames,
And suddenly Grandad gave a yell,
And a coffin with legs and its ###### end on fire
Ran out on t’conveyor belt!

O’er the pews and out through the window,
The burning kipper box ran,
And we all cheered the crate as it swam through the lake
Chased by me Dad and me Mam.

‘A blessed miracle,’ said me Gran,
But the Man from the Pru went quite white;
‘Ruined,’ he roared, he would have said more
But he slipped in the road on some more of that stuff I’ve been telling you about.

‘I’ve just done that, ‘said the policeman,
So the insurance man rubbed his nose in it.

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I’m not prejudiced, I hate everybody equally

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1 hour ago, Martyn Sadler said:

I like the poetry of Wendy Cope, which suddenly began to appeal to me when I finally realised that I may not be immortal after all.

She writes whimsical poetry, mainly about relationships when you're past the first flush of youth.

This simple poem is entitled 'Another Valentine', and it is obviously appropriate today.

Today we are obliged to be romantic
And think of yet another valentine.
We know the rules and we are both pedantic:
Today's the day we have to be romantic.
Our love is old and sure, not new and frantic.
You know I'm yours and I know you are mine.
And saying that has made me feel romantic,
My dearest love, my darling valentine. 

Wendy Cope is very good. She likes a villanelle, as do I. Her collection " Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis. " is full of delights.

Summer Villanelle (Wendy Cope)

You know exactly what to do—
Your kiss, your fingers on my thigh—
I think of little else but you.

It's bliss to have a lover who,
Touching one shoulder, makes me sigh—
You know exactly what to do.

You make me happy through and through,
The way the sun lights up the sky—
I think of little else but you.

I hardly sleep-an hour or two;
I can't eat much and this is why—
You know exactly what to do.

The movie in my mind is blue—
As June runs into warm July
I think of little else but you.

But is it love? And is it true?
Who cares? This much I can't deny:
You know exactly what to do;
I think of little else but you.

 


"I am the avenging angel; I come with wings unfurled, I come with claws extended from halfway round the world. I am the God Almighty, I am the howling wind. I care not for your family; I care not for your kin. I come in search of terror, though terror is my own; I come in search of vengeance for crimes and crimes unknown. I care not for your children, I care not for your wives, I care not for your country, I care not for your lives." - (c) Jim Boyes - "The Avenging Angel"

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Check out the unofficial poet laureate of Twitter, Brian Bilston. Here's an article about him, with examples. He can be found of Twitter and facebook.

https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-37319526


"I am the avenging angel; I come with wings unfurled, I come with claws extended from halfway round the world. I am the God Almighty, I am the howling wind. I care not for your family; I care not for your kin. I come in search of terror, though terror is my own; I come in search of vengeance for crimes and crimes unknown. I care not for your children, I care not for your wives, I care not for your country, I care not for your lives." - (c) Jim Boyes - "The Avenging Angel"

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1 hour ago, tim2 said:

Wendy Cope is very good. She likes a villanelle, as do I. Her collection " Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis. " is full of delights.

Summer Villanelle (Wendy Cope)

You know exactly what to do—
Your kiss, your fingers on my thigh—
I think of little else but you.

It's bliss to have a lover who,
Touching one shoulder, makes me sigh—
You know exactly what to do.

You make me happy through and through,
The way the sun lights up the sky—
I think of little else but you.

I hardly sleep-an hour or two;
I can't eat much and this is why—
You know exactly what to do.

The movie in my mind is blue—
As June runs into warm July
I think of little else but you.

But is it love? And is it true?
Who cares? This much I can't deny:
You know exactly what to do;
I think of little else but you.

 

I bought that book quite recently and I completely agree about its contents.

That's a truly beguiling poem.

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"Mafia Cats" - Roger McGough

We're the Mafia cats
Bugsy, Franco and Toni
We're crazy for pizza
With hot pepperoni

We run all the rackets
From gambling to vice
On St Valentine's Day
We massacre mice

We always wear shades
To show that we're meanies
Big hats and sharp suits
And drive Lamborghinis

We're the Mafia cats
Bugsy, Franco and Toni
Love Sicilian wine
And cheese macaroni

But we have a secret
(And if you dare tell
You'll end up with the kitten 
At the bottom of the well

Or covered in concrete
And thrown into the deep
For this is one secret
You really must keep.)

We're the Cosa Nostra
Run the scams and the fiddles
But at home we are
Mopsy, Ginger and Tiddles

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Went to see the Bard of Salford, Dr John Cooper Clarke last night. I'd like to reproduce the highlight of the evening here, but the forum's sweary filter would reduce it to a post of #'s! :O

 

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"it is a well known fact that those people who most want to rule people are, ipso facto, those least suited to do it."

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6 hours ago, Griff9of13 said:

Went to see the Bard of Salford, Dr John Cooper Clarke last night. I'd like to reproduce the highlight of the evening here, but the forum's sweary filter would reduce it to a post of #'s! :O

 

The train is late
You wait and wait
You're lost and found
Stuck in Chickentown

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"I am the avenging angel; I come with wings unfurled, I come with claws extended from halfway round the world. I am the God Almighty, I am the howling wind. I care not for your family; I care not for your kin. I come in search of terror, though terror is my own; I come in search of vengeance for crimes and crimes unknown. I care not for your children, I care not for your wives, I care not for your country, I care not for your lives." - (c) Jim Boyes - "The Avenging Angel"

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Reviving an old thread, but I've just been reminded that John Toshak moonlighted from Football as a published(!) poet. Here's the title piece from his book Gosh it's Tosh!

"On Wednesday Shankly names a team,
But for one player a shattered dream.
His season's finished, blown away,
But he is still to have his say."

The Gods are angry.
They send rain, in torrents, and smite the game.
Then just by chance it really pours,
Twenty-two players on all fours.
The Referee says, 'That's enough',
Will Liverpool call the German bluff?"

A day passes and, from the deluge,
I emerge, to rise above Mönchengladbach.
"The Welshman kills them in the air,
Toshack and Keegan, what a pair!!"

Europe fears me. Gosh it's Tosh. It is 1976.
The Nou Camp belongs to me.
A Goalden night and what a thrill,
It's Liverpool one, Barcelona nil."

Edited by Futtocks

Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon. (Susan Ertz)

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Did you know that vegans have their own poetry?

Oh freddled gruntbuggly,

Thy micturations are to me, (with big yawning)

As plurdled gabbleblotchits, in midsummer morning

On a lurgid bee,

That mordiously hath blurted out,

Its earted jurtles, grumbling

Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer. [drowned out by moaning and screaming]

Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles,

Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts,

And living glupules frart and stipulate,

Like jowling meated liverslime,

Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes,

And hooptiously drangle me,

With crinkly bindlewurdles,mashurbitries.

Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,

See if I don't!


Four legs good - two legs bad

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My first poetry pamplet, published by Glass Head Press, is at the printers. If it comes back OK, I will be launching it on November 8th at The Brewery and Tap, Doncaster.

That Toshack poem is bad.

 


"I am the avenging angel; I come with wings unfurled, I come with claws extended from halfway round the world. I am the God Almighty, I am the howling wind. I care not for your family; I care not for your kin. I come in search of terror, though terror is my own; I come in search of vengeance for crimes and crimes unknown. I care not for your children, I care not for your wives, I care not for your country, I care not for your lives." - (c) Jim Boyes - "The Avenging Angel"

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When my partner was pregnant, I read poetry to our daughter while she was still in the womb, she recognises some of the weird ones I used to read, like Jabberwocky, and she can quote verbatim Room on the Broom, and Gruffalo, at (nearly) 11 yo


RESURGAM

Non solum autem Leones

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I’ve started writing and studying poetry this year. This has been a very unusual turn of events for me however it’s very fulfilling and I’m very happy to have this new hobby.

 

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1 hour ago, Copa said:

I’ve started writing and studying poetry this year. This has been a very unusual turn of events for me however it’s very fulfilling and I’m very happy to have this new hobby.

 

Well, there are verse ways of spending your time. 😑

Edited by longboard
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The Tay Bridge Disaster
by William Topaz McGonagall

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

’Twas about seven o’clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem’d to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem’d to say-
“I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers’ hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
“I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay.”

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers’ hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov’d most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov’d slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o’er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill’d all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav’d to tell the tale
How the disaster happen’d on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.


Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon. (Susan Ertz)

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apolgies if its been mentioned before,but jabberwocky by edgar allen poe (my dad knew it by heart and used  to call a "gang meting" on a Tuesday night which consisted of me and my kid brother lying in our bunkbeds whilst he recited such things) and goblin market too. my dad didn't leave me much except the importance of sharing special time with your kids. my daughter is now 23 and not only knows jabberwocky by heart,but teaches it via sign language at the school she works at. Brings a lump to my heart. 

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9 minutes ago, JDINTHEHIZZOUSE said:

apolgies if its been mentioned before,but jabberwocky by lewis carroll (my dad knew it by heart and used  to call a "gang meting" on a Tuesday night which consisted of me and my kid brother lying in our bunkbeds whilst he recited such things) and goblin market too. my dad didn't leave me much except the importance of sharing special time with your kids. my daughter is now 23 and not only knows jabberwocky by heart,but teaches it via sign language at the school she works at. Brings a lump to my heart. 

 

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1 hour ago, JDINTHEHIZZOUSE said:

apolgies if its been mentioned before,but jabberwocky by edgar allen poe (my dad knew it by heart and used  to call a "gang meting" on a Tuesday night which consisted of me and my kid brother lying in our bunkbeds whilst he recited such things) and goblin market too. my dad didn't leave me much except the importance of sharing special time with your kids. my daughter is now 23 and not only knows jabberwocky by heart,but teaches it via sign language at the school she works at. Brings a lump to my heart. 

There's a theory (I think I've mentioned it before, but can't be bothered to search) that 'Jabberwocky' sounds best when recited in a broad Scouse accent.


Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon. (Susan Ertz)

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On 13/10/2019 at 17:24, Futtocks said:

The Tay Bridge Disaster
by William Topaz McGonagall

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

’Twas about seven o’clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem’d to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem’d to say-
“I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers’ hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
“I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay.”

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers’ hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov’d most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov’d slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o’er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill’d all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav’d to tell the tale
How the disaster happen’d on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.

I know he was reckoned to be the world's worst poet.

But, that it is better than I could do.

I freely admit ( as if you didn't know) to be a philistine.

I cannot draw water and I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket

 

Edited by Bearman

Ron Banks

Bears and Barrow

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On 13/10/2019 at 17:56, JDINTHEHIZZOUSE said:

my dad didn't leave me much except the importance of sharing special time with your kids. my daughter is now 23 and not only knows jabberwocky by heart

Very wise dad you had

Mine are still young and u savour every second of reading time / playing games etc

I'm terrified ill wake up and before I know it they'll be 23!

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