Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Thank you, Katex, for your vote of appreciation. I have long been an advocate of 'rhyming poetry' and have penned verses on many subjects over the years: some enchanting, some scary and others mockingly critical of the society in which we now find ourselves.

Kind regards . . . Stumped.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Here I go again, harping on about the good old days, but I am sure that anyone born in the aftermath of WW2 will recall the sentiment I sought to express in this little ditty . . .

King Cotton
©1999

It seems like only yesterday whence Cotton were the King,
An' steeples pointed skyward by the score,
When roads were lined wi' cobbles an' streets were lit with gas,
An' it were safe to go outside bout' lockin' door;
When we 'ad full employment both for lasses and for lads,
An' factory whistles echoed all around the town,
When pride were somethin' valued and manners taught in school,
An' young men did national service for The Crown.

Come sixty three when I got wed and left me 'Arrod Town,
Bent on starting out afresh in pastures new,
Little did I realise that the rot would soon set in,
An' King Cotton's reign would end up in a stew;
Wi't railways trashed by Beeching and cheap imports from abroad,
Cotton mills began to fold up one by one,
Familiar landmarks like the Deveron an' the Palatine,
Like the Leather Works and Oxo - dead and gone.

As me memories draw me back to't nineteen forties,
To the sounds o't rag and bone man on our street,
I still hear the earthy chatterings of the mill girls,
An' the clatter of the clogs upon their feet;
Me owd' mother and me aunties were all mill girls,
Lasses skilled in th'art of runnin' umpteen looms,
An' the racket in the weavin' shed were deafnin',
Loud enough to stir cadavers in their tombs.

These precious mill girls were true treasures of their time,
A breed apart to whom we'll always be in debt,
An' like as always, faceless moguls without conscience,
Gambled blindly with their lives and lost the bet;
Now when you walk the railway beds of yesteryear,
Just take time to close your eyes and hark awhile,
An' should you heed the ghostly wail of factory whistles,
Pray remember Old King Cotton died in style.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Slumped on the bar,
With a jar and a belly full of laughs...

Feel free to continue
If you feel the desire
to add to this poem!

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Slumped on the bar,
With a jar and a belly full of laughs,
My head in my hands as I reflect on my gaffs,
The change in my pockets decidedly low,
The lack of employment a shattering blow . . .

Next please . . .

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

So I got on my guitar to play,
Just like yesterday - and said,

I hope we won't get fooled again!

Oh sorry that's from the Who song

:theband::mosher:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Saturday night finds me slumped at the bar,
Feeling like crap with my hands round a jar,
I doubt that I'd raise me a barrel of laughs,
As with head in my hands I reflect on my gaffs.

Thus with change in my pockets decidedly low,
And the lack of employment a shattering blow,
I just strum my guitar in the orthodox way,
And mutter a curse to the end of the day . . .

:theband:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

:mosher:[quote=Stumped;690501]Saturday night finds me slumped at the bar,
Feeling like crap with my hands round a jar,
I doubt that I'd raise me a barrel of laughs,
As with head in my hands I reflect on my gaffs.

Thus with change in my pockets decidedly low,
And the lack of employment a shattering blow,
I just strum my guitar in the orthodox way,
And mutter a curse to the end of the day

Then I wonder if should have a game of cricket,
But I'm so ****ed it may be a leg before wicket,
I get up from the bar and my balls are in a tangle
And head for the men's to have a quick wazzle



:mosher:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

[quote=kestrelx;691365]:mosher:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Then in comes a mate with a copy of the Sun
Something useful to use this comic to wipe my bum
I leave the bog and head for the stage,
Where I give them a scat instead of a chat...
"a do dop dada, a woop, pop dada, a do wop dada, sh la la la la!"

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

The words might seem a little daft,
'Cos this rhyming stuff is a developed craft,
So no matter what the sentiment,
The effort involved is heaven sent.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Thought I would put in my two penneth...well the Obby thought it was good enough to print. :)

Folk write to the “Obby”, and sometimes wax lyrical.
Sometimes serious, sometimes satirical.
I thought I would add to this poetic trend
As I have a short while to lazily spend

It’s the only newspaper I don’t read online.
Good value, methinks, the price is just fine
To catch up with news, be it good or bad
And hear people’s moans, and what makes them mad.

Nice to know about hatches and matches
But makes you sad to read the “dispatches”
Area news from Clayton to Bash
Words from our councillors when they clash

Honeys and hunks, and beautiful tots
Voting for the best snapshots
What’s on & when, & historical news
(All in my life time now, gives me the blues)

The office will shut, so sad for some staff.
I wish them well in their next chosen path.
Hope the Obby will remain just as local
Giving us all a chance to be vocal

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I reckon we've all been there at one time or another! I'm just glad that my working days are behind me . . . Stumped.


TheInsomniacs’ Diary
:dancedog:

I go to bed at midnight on the button,
Prepared to get my head down pretty quick,
At two-o-clock I’m still awake and flustered,
By three I’ve grown so angry I feel sick.

I pace the bedroom floor to still my heart-rate,
And check the clock to see it’s almost four,
Come five-o-clock I feel I’ve really had it,
At six-o-clock I’m feeling really sore.

It’s nearly time for work and I’m exhausted,
Come seven-o-clock it’s time for my alarm,
The buzzer sounds to emphasise my quandary,
I jump back into bed where it’s still warm.

At eight-o-clock the phone rings to alert me,
And my boss snarls in my lughole: ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve overslept,’ I answer meekly,
‘Well get down here for nine or you are through.’

Come ten-o-clock I’m nodding at my station,
My computer busy logging all missed calls,
And eleven finds me snoring in the staff-room,
Where the gaffer really has me by the balls.

So mid-day sees my exit from employment,
And with cards in hand I make my weary way,
Blaming sleepless nights for cocking up my prospects,
As snoozing on the job will never pay.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

That Creeping Sensation

They can put you off your supper,
Even keep you from your sleep,
For the fear aroused by spiders,
Is inclined to make skin creep;
They wake in us emotions,
That send us into fits,
For party to their strange mystique,
They scare us out our wits !

They can weave the neatest pattern,
And balloon upon the wind,
They can shimmy up the drainpipe,
And scale the sheerest thing;
They strut in stiff legged fashion,
And strike at breakneck speed,
As party to their heritage,
'Tis how all spiders feed !

They select the darkest cranny,
There to hang around for days,
Lurk motionless and scary,
Till in the end it pays;
Though we may fear the spider,
It bodes us well to think,
E'er we assume the coast is clear,
One shows up in the sink !

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

The fear of spiders is a phobia shared by many. This, like my previous posting, is a simple exploration (or maybe exploitation) of same.

+The Arachnid

Concealed inside a blanket of spun silk,
Or awaiting on it's luncheon with a yen,
No reputation rivals that of the arachnid,
This most feared of creatures present among men.

Crawling in it's stiff eight legged fashion,
Or despatching of it's prey thus turned to soup,
The abominable ways of the arachnid,
Are inclined to make the strongest stomach swoop.

Clinging to it's web in isolation,
Or ballooning through the air at natures whim,
The inviolable role of the arachnid,
Is frowned upon as something awful grim.

Considering then the creature's ill repute,
Does it really merit such an awful press?
The unpalatable traits of the arachnid,
On reflection glean a most resounding - yes.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

im not much of a poet lol... mostly i write songs

He's sitting there in the bar all alone
In the corner he doesnt want to know anyone
There is a whole world in the bottom of his glass
He only wants to drain away the day

A quiet bar is where here feels safe
Doesn't want to talk with strangers
Loutish creatures fill up the nightclubs
Dancing to music that makes him feel like an alien

Hes staring up at the sky in the beer garden
Wondering if the clouds are fluffy elephants
Sitting in the sun with his hangover
Hairs of the dog floating around in his glass

The bell rings and hes on his way
Out of the bar and back to his place
Stumbles up the stairs and falls into bed
And the hangover's cure is only a few hours away