When Macca came ter Liverpewl
‘E turned around an’ said
Dem judies at de Grafton
Wud look dead good in bed.
Wid all dat fancy talkin’
Wid all dat fancy slang
‘E got a mind ter sling dat kilt
An’ join dat Scouser gang.
An’ so Macbeth, ter break away
Came ‘ere ter feel more free
Came down ter start a takeaway
An’ make a mint in Wavertree.
From den till now ‘e wasn’ foreign
An’ dat’s because ‘e ‘id ‘is sporran.
Grafton judies clocked our Macca’s charms
An’ hasty-like slammed in fresh bubble-gum
Many judies shimmied in ‘is red an’ ‘airy arms
An’ fantasised about ‘is crackin’ kilted bum.
But Macca couldn’ grasp de Grafton lingo
Our chewin’, darlin’ judies quickly uttered
Mobbed by grisly grannies ‘ere for bingo
Many a falsie bosom ‘eaved and fluttered.
Our sweatin’ grannies licked der cherry lips
An’ gasped dey’d never seen a better feller
Clockin’ ‘airy chest an’ ‘airy arms an’ ‘airy ‘ips
As Macca fled, three judies snarled ‘Yer yeller’.
Our Macca couldn’ hack it back on gruesome Dunsinane
Or in de Grafton, Speke, Sefy Park or even Penny Lane.
(The second, and concluding, sonnet concerning Macbeth,
who journeyed south to become our Macca. He became
a proud Liverpool Scot.)
Unfortunate Amalda Potts
Dosed up on beer and cider
Unpleasantly she got the trots
Only drunks would sit beside her.
She vowed a vow to end all vows
She vowed a vow to heaven
She vowed she’d drink what came from cows
At least till half-past seven.
But Amalda Potts, a tad unstable
Demonstrates her party trick
Dumping mates beneath the table
Hailed the hottest party chick.
So youthful pleasures, booze and party joy
Are swell or Hell for flirty girl and giddy boy.
( A cautionary sonnet warning of incendiary powers
at work when flirty girls, giddy boys, booze, and
party-time collide. )
Miss Amanda Milinthrop the First
Developed a substantial thirst
Resulting in her looking bleary
Hoping mates still find her cheery.
She loves the thrill of gin and tonic
Although affected something chronic
Dancing on or slumped under table
To cope with booze she wasn’t able.
Miss Amanda Milinthrop the very First
Screwballed when she’d slaked her thirst
Swigged from Three to well past Eleven
And woke up dead just outside Heaven.
The moral of this tale will maybe shock
A crazy mind won’t let you safely rock.
The patterned leopard, sweaty at the Clinic
Waits with lolling tongue as dry as chalk
Spotted fur drenched as he tries to mimic
The bravest cat who ever walked the walk.
Twitchy whiskers betray one lumpy, jumpy cat
As crawling minutes tick and deadly seconds tock
Awaits a call to pad towards the Physio’s mat
To take that fearful jab and not to show the shock.
Greeny-yellow eyes quite slowly narrowing with fear
The leopard’s sleeky ears now flattened to his head
As footsteps come and beckon him to slink in here
Where preparations are in hand to give the jab of dread.
But then, a blessed shock engulfs the quaking, trembly beast
Fine Physio has neatly changed his mind and smiles farewell
No jab required and, joy of joys, the leopard’s quick released
No need now to crawl or quiver but gladly rescued by the bell.
What is the lesson for our ruffled, furry friend let off the hook?
That in his paws there lies the chance to live life by the book.
[My recent experience at a local Clinic. Expecting a gruesome
Cortisone jab for days previously, the time arrived and all the usual
pretence at nonchalance built to a nervous crescendo. The
subsequent escape to freedom without the jab brought heady joy!]
Lying weakly draped on our grand settee
Where the hell is that leopard taking me?
That leopard who with the sharpest claws
Held high the World in his spotted paws.
Growling, croaking, so overcome by germs
Groaning at nurse to bring this ‘flu’ to terms
Battling to hold leopard’s sickly paws aloft
Insisting this feline has not yet gone soft.
But still a prowling, graceful, bristly beast
Who’s dynamite when not feeling creased
Sharp, fiery whiskers and rough, licking tongue
Dappled cat’s flattened ears so sickly overhung.
Memories of health pass leopard’s misty eye
As he pads to the fridge for the naughtiest pie.
[A common experience for many of us who, in the jaws of ‘flu’, can only hope for a comfortable return to health……….and quickly, please!]
Leopard, leopard, leaping, leaping
Snarling, gasping, forehand reaping
Catching thigh on sharp table corner
Sore limbs scream for Physio Lorna
Backhand speeding, super-swerving
Rivals’ mouths glint quite unnerving
As points stack up against us two
Leopard snarls in this human zoo.
No longer a leopard of seventeen
Many long years now lie between
That make this sweating carcass grunt
Mostly bested by some flashy runt
Who, had he met me in my silky prime
Would feel the pace of leopard’s time
A burning foot stokes leaden reaction
Removing all thought of satisfaction.
And yet the thrill of the ping-pong table
Draws back the leopard to play with Mabel
To win some flashing points on occasion
With a once-an-evening point sensation
That sets the partner shyly all a-twitter
And fires leopard’s tawny eyes a-glitter
To fly the body back some twenty years
Replacing rivals’ hidden jeers with fears.
The leopard’s spots they have never changed
It’s just the musculature that’s rearranged
Mighty sinew and splendid dancing claws
That used to harvest spontaneous applause
Have crept unnoticed towards lesser powers
And all is revealed during ping-pong hours
Once mighty leopard of the table tennis table
Accept thy fate with such good grace as thou art able!
(A poem addressed to all those sporting heroes making a belated return
to the sport they previously graced with such leopard-like distinction!)
Have you noticed, Cheryl sweet
How Time slips under others’ feet
Yet we are still prevailed upon
To slip Hobbs and Per Una on.
To flash Chanel and fling the Bling
Our silken hose, our golden string
Our winning ways, our fabled charm
Still keep us safe and free from harm.
Yet many a scented man has winked an eye
Full many a head has turned as we pass by
Our slim-line tailored jeans and vivid blouses
Inspire essential talk in all the finest houses.
We think our flaming youth remains the reason
Why we are sweetly feted through every season.