Slough
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

**I was born in Slough, this poem reminds me of my childhood**

Anything by Wilfred Owen has me in tears

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest3 began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots4
Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .
Dim, through the misty panes10 and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,11 choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud12
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13
To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.15

8 October 1917 - March, 1918

I love this poem it was one of the best known poems of WW1

Wonderful choices, both

War poetry has me in bits But! I love that they are written by young, working class men in the height if battle. Powerful stuff. None of this 'poetry's for the Oxbridge lot', it's about truth and experience.

Ooh, love it!

Sore point... really sore point when I am pished up!

My mum wrote a poem when she was at school. This poem is now published in thousands of books worldwide, but attributed to anon.

We have been trying to get the paper trail together to prove her authorship of this bloody poem for about 6 years (prior to that we hadn't realised how widespread it was).

Every year it is published in more and more anthologies. It is part of the schools curriculums in the UK, USA and Austrailia.

It really pishes me off! Its not even about the royality money. Its about it getting credited to my mum!

*rant over*

Daddy
by: Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

---Sylvia Plath's father was German and he died when she was a young child, his death overshadowed her life which was always troubled, she tried several times to kill herself and eventually achieved it when she too had young children.

quote:

Originally posted by Dirtyprettygirlthing:
Sore point... really sore point when I am pished up!

My mum wrote a poem when she was at school. This poem is now published in thousands of books worldwide, but attributed to anon.

We have been trying to get the paper trail together to prove her authorship of this bloody poem for about 6 years (prior to that we hadn't realised how widespread it was).

Every year it is published in more and more anthologies. It is part of the schools curriculums in the UK, USA and Austrailia.

It really pishes me off! Its not even about the royality money. Its about it getting credited to my mum!

*rant over*

Wow Ditty, that's amazing! Can you post it? I might recognise it. I hope you can get her authorship recognised

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They **** you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were ****ed up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Its really frustrating Raggy... we have traced it back to its first inclusion in an anthology... and we have spoken to the lady (Margaret Mayo).. but she cannot remember how she came about it.

Ok....

When 'ere You Meet a Crocodile
(sometimes called "Whenever You Meet a Crocodile)

by Christine F Littlewood

If you should meet a crocodile,
Don’t take a stick and poke him,
Ignore the welcome in his smile,
Be careful not to stroke him.
For while he sleeps upon the Nile
The crocodile gets thinner.
When 'ere you meet a crocodile
He’s ready for his dinner!


:smile: feels good to put her name to it (its her maiden name btw)

I should add.... it also is sometimes titled "If You Should Meet a Crocodile"

Another reason she needs to get this credited to her, is to protect it from anymore changes!

*SHE STOOD ON THE BRIDGE AT MIDNIGHT

HER LIPS WERE ALL A QUIVER

SHE GAVE A COUGH

HER LEG FELL OFF

AND FLOATED DOWN THE RIVER*

BOWS AND WALKS AWAY

quote:

Originally posted by Dirtyprettygirlthing:
Its really frustrating Raggy... we have traced it back to its first inclusion in an anthology... and we have spoken to the lady (Margaret Mayo).. but she cannot remember how she came about it.

Ok....

When 'ere You Meet a Crocodile
(sometimes called "Whenever You Meet a Crocodile)

by Christine F Littlewood

If you should meet a crocodile,
Don’t take a stick and poke him,
Ignore the welcome in his smile,
Be careful not to stroke him.
For while he sleeps upon the Nile
The crocodile gets thinner.
When 'ere you meet a crocodile
He’s ready for his dinner!


:smile: feels good to put her name to it (its her maiden name btw)

It's a lovely piece of children's verse, I bet you read it with yours. I do think I recognise it! I never thought about all those 'anon' poems before, I suppose you just think the author doesn't want to put their name to it? Just think of the enjoyment so many people will have gotten out of what your Mum wrote, you're right though recognition and protection of the integrity of the original words means a lot.



Edit: embarrassing spelling error!

quote:

Originally posted by Queen of the High Teas:
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They **** you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were ****ed up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Poignant!

I do like Larkin, that is one of the most oft-quoted lines of English poetry I think: 'They f.uck you up, your Mum and Dad...'

quote:

Originally posted by china:
*SHE STOOD ON THE BRIDGE AT MIDNIGHT

HER LIPS WERE ALL A QUIVER

SHE GAVE A COUGH

HER LEG FELL OFF

AND FLOATED DOWN THE RIVER*

BOWS AND WALKS AWAY

You do make me laugh.

*it was on the good ship venus

by christ you should of seen us

the figure head was a whore in bed

and the mast was a bent mans penis

the captain of this lugger

he was a dirty bugger

he wasnt fit, to shovel shit from one place to another

friggin in the riggin friggin in the riggin friggin in the riggin cos theres f*ck all else to do*


sex pistols-one of their finest

quote:

Originally posted by Raggy♥Doll:
I am half watching 'Sylvia' the biopic of Sylvia Plath. I am quite fascinated by the relationship she had with Ted Hughes and the idea of groups of artists and poets as friends, the way they influence each other.

I write some poetry myself, sometimes when it comes to me though it's only for myself really. I'd like to be a poet but I'm probably not suicidal enough

I think the BBC has a poetry season on at the moment, missed most of it due to baby I like the idea that they are trying to bring poetry back to the masses rather than being viewed as 'high brow'.

I thought we could post some poetry that we appreciate, either by poets that touch us or poems that have meant something in our lives, or even some we've written?

Whadda ya think?

Hmmm.

I read, and write, poetry too; always have. it's helped me through some of the darkest, and some of the happiest, times in my life.

I've just finished a poem actually; but I'm not posting it here - not today, anyway, I want my therapist to read it befoer anyone else does.

But here's one by my current favourite writer;

SUPER HERO

when i was a young boy
i played with dolls
no, i’m not talking about barbie
although my sister had one of those
but i wouldn’t touch that doll’s sorry ass
with a ten foot pole
and my uncle once gave me a g.i.joe
but that doll never saw a day of service
he just rested in peace
in his unopened box
like he came toe-tags included
no, when i was a young boy
i played with super hero dolls!

and my parents didn’t mind
after all super heros are practically perfect
boyhood role models
sure their outfits are a bit flamboyant
capes and tights and masks
in color schemes
that would make even a drag queen
green with envy
and they were sensitive enough
to rescue cats out of trees
or help elderly ladies cross streets
but they were man enough
to kick their arch enemies asses
and send them packing back
to the radioactive planets they came from
and when you are a young boy
you’re taught that
that's what’s really important

and some of my boyhood friends
were also into super heroes
but only because they dreamt of being
faster than a speeding bullet
more powerful than a locomotive
but what they failed to notice
was that all super powers come
with a built-in achilles heels
like kryptonite, if you will
and all super heroes are vulnerable in ways
that mere mortals can’t comprehend
and if you twist a super hero’s arm
a little too much
you might snap their rubber band spines
and their limbs would go limp in their body suits
i would accidentally do this from time to time
i didn't know my own strength back then

and unlike my friends
i didn’t play with super heroes
because i was jealous of their super-human powers
i played with super heroes
because i felt sorry for them
because i understood
that super heroes are not just admired
but also despised
that they have to spend most of their lives in disguise
and as a young transgendered child
i didn’t dream about becoming a super hero someday
instead i identified with them
because i knew what it was like to pretend
to hide my true identity
and special powers
behind pseudonyms
and mild manners

and even at the age of seven
i understood why superman chose
to love lois lane from afar
that’s just the sick sort of thing that you do
when you don’t want anyone to find out
who you are

that’s why i always imagined the hall of justice
as one big support group meeting
where super heroes could console one another
and talk about how all the super powers in the world
couldn’t give them the one thing
they wanted most of all
to be a normal
and that’s why i made sure
to play with my super heroes every single day
so that they knew they were loved
and when i wasn’t around
i put them all in one big shoebox
that way they could look out for one another

and sometimes
i still imagine myself as a super hero
but these days
i refuse to be mild mannered
because i’ve lived in the closet
long enough to know
that phone booths
are few and far in between
and after spending most of my life feeling helpless
i’ve learned that every single minute
is an emergency

IF.....


IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

I'm having to resort to quick reply.. so can't quote....

Ta Raggy... and I know :smile:

My mum first got an inkling that her poem was 'out there' when I was just 3 and my brother a baby... and we were watching playschool on the telly, and they read out her poem. But back then it wasn't a simple thing to contact the BBC... so she eventually just forgot about it... though she told me the story of when her poem got read out on the telly all the time.

Then, 6 years ago, I bought a kids poetry book called "A Poem for Every Day of the Year by Gaby Morgan" for my kids... and randomly opened it... and there was mums poem.

So I googled it!! And it blew our minds. She now has three bookcases full of books containing it.

We are now at a stage where we either:

Find the money for a decent IP lawyer.
or...
I contact Radio 4 about it... either their poetry programme or women's hour
or...
We get really nasty with her old Grammar School... cos its there that the trail goes cold.. They just won't talk to us about it. Its the missing link... how it got from there to the first person that included it in an anthology.

The reason its so important to her is, she was the little woman, she was the reason my dad could be succesful. And as we grew up she had a complete breakdown.. a "what have I acheived in my life" moment.

Its her bit of immortality.... and I want to secure it for her!

quote:

Originally posted by china:
*it was on the good ship venus

by christ you should of seen us

the figure head was a whore in bed

and the mast was a bent mans penis

the captain of this lugger

he was a dirty bugger

he wasnt fit, to shovel shit from one place to another

friggin in the riggin friggin in the riggin friggin in the riggin cos theres f*ck all else to do*


sex pistols-one of their finest

China... I love those lyrics... I have loved those lyrics for decades... and not just cos they were rude!

Of course! I mean to have something that you created be recognised in your name, that is a lot of what writing is about. Your thoughts are kind of sanctioned by others and you are reassured that other people's experiences are the same as your own, you can connect with people through it...totally understand. How crap of the Grammar School!

Sarum, who is the poem by?

quote:

Originally posted by Raggy♥Doll:

Sarum, who is the poem by?

Sorry Raggy...It's by Julia Serano

I will give you a poem when you wake tomorrow.
It will be a peaceful poem.
It won’t make you sad.
It won’t make you miserable.
It will simply be a poem to give you
When you wake tomorrow.

It was not written by myself alone.
I cannot lay claim to it.
I found it in your body.
In your smile I found it.
Will you recognise it?

You will find it under your pillow.
When you open the cupboard it will be there.
You will blink in astonishment,
Shout out, ‘How it trembles!
Its nakedness is startling! How fresh it tastes!’

We will have it for breakfast;
On a table lit by loving,
At a place reserved for wonder.
We will give the world a kissing open
When we wake tomorrow.

We will offer it to the sad landlord out on the balcony.
To the dreamers at the window.
To the hand waving for no particular reason
We will offer it.
An amazing and most remarkable thing,
We will offer it to the whole human race
Which walks in us
When we wake tomorrow.

Brian Patten

I got this in an email, usually they are rubbish but it did make me lol:

quote:

Originally posted by Supercalifragilistic:
I will give you a poem when you wake tomorrow.
It will be a peaceful poem.
It won’t make you sad.
It won’t make you miserable.
It will simply be a poem to give you
When you wake tomorrow.

It was not written by myself alone.
I cannot lay claim to it.
I found it in your body.
In your smile I found it.
Will you recognise it?

You will find it under your pillow.
When you open the cupboard it will be there.
You will blink in astonishment,
Shout out, ‘How it trembles!
Its nakedness is startling! How fresh it tastes!’

We will have it for breakfast;
On a table lit by loving,
At a place reserved for wonder.
We will give the world a kissing open
When we wake tomorrow.

We will offer it to the sad landlord out on the balcony.
To the dreamers at the window.
To the hand waving for no particular reason
We will offer it.
An amazing and most remarkable thing,
We will offer it to the whole human race
Which walks in us
When we wake tomorrow.

Brian Patten

That is beautiful, thank you for posting it

quote:

Originally posted by Dirtyprettygirlthing:

quote:

Originally posted by china:
*it was on the good ship venus

by christ you should of seen us

the figure head was a whore in bed

and the mast was a bent mans penis

the captain of this lugger

he was a dirty bugger

he wasnt fit, to shovel shit from one place to another

friggin in the riggin friggin in the riggin friggin in the riggin cos theres f*ck all else to do*


sex pistols-one of their finest

China... I love those lyrics... I have loved those lyrics for decades... and not just cos they were rude!

'tis your birthday present my sweet
and i hope youve had a wonderful day

LOL! i can hear cats fighting outside my pc room, im downstairs in me basement and theres a proper scrap outside

And another Brian Patten- lovin his work:

When I left I stole an orange
I kept it in my pocket
It felt like a warm planet

Everywhere I went smelt of oranges
Whenever I got into an awkward situation
I'd take out the orange and smell it

And immediately on even dead branches I saw
The lovely and fierce orange blossom
That smells so much of joy

When I went out I stole an orange
It was a safeguard against imagining
There was nothing bright or special in the world

quote:

Originally posted by china:

'tis your birthday present my sweet
and i hope youve had a wonderful day

LOL! i can hear cats fighting outside my pc room, im downstairs in me basement and theres a proper scrap outside

Thank you xx (bucket of water for the cats )

quote:

Originally posted by Dirtyprettygirlthing:

quote:

Originally posted by china:

'tis your birthday present my sweet
and i hope youve had a wonderful day

LOL! i can hear cats fighting outside my pc room, im downstairs in me basement and theres a proper scrap outside

Thank you xx (bucket of water for the cats )

Oi..no 'cat fighting in this thread 'Tis a lurvely friendly, fluffy bunny kinda thread

quote:

Originally posted by Supercalifragilistic:
And another Brian Patten- lovin his work:

When I left I stole an orange
I kept it in my pocket
It felt like a warm planet

Everywhere I went smelt of oranges
Whenever I got into an awkward situation
I'd take out the orange and smell it

And immediately on even dead branches I saw
The lovely and fierce orange blossom
That smells so much of joy

When I went out I stole an orange
It was a safeguard against imagining
There was nothing bright or special in the world

Wow, he's good.

I'll have to look out for his work...thank you.

Yes I'm liking the Brian Patten stuff too

Do ya want another?

Go on !

On the Ning Nang Nong

On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!

Spike Milligan

quote:

Originally posted by Raggy♥Doll:
I got this in an email, usually they are rubbish but it did make me lol:

See... apart from the chain mail bit at the bottom... I like that!

But then my fave classical poet is Edward Lear... so that kinda tells you the level that I operate at!

Christina Rosetti has her critics; some think she had limited ability.
But I like this. I like the philosophy of it.

SONG

by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

WHEN I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain;
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

quote:

Originally posted by Raggy♥Doll:
On the Ning Nang Nong

On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!

Spike Milligan

AND I ADORE SPIKE MILLIGAN!!!

Get the kleenex at the ready for this one

I have changed the numbers on my watch,
And now perhaps something else will change.
Now perhaps
At precisely 2a.m.
You will not get up
And gathering your things together
Go forever.
Perhaps now you will find it is
Far too early to go,
Or far too late,
And stay forever

This one is by our new Poet Laureate- the first female poet laureate! -Carol Ann Duffy:

Mrs Lazarus

I had grieved. I had wept for a night and a day
over my loss, ripped the cloth I was married in
from my breasts, howled, shrieked, clawed
at the burial stones until my hands bled, retched
his name over and over again, dead, dead.

Gone home. Gutted the place. Slept in a single cot,
widow, one empty glove, white femur
in the dust, half. Stuffed dark suits
into black bags, shuffled in a dead man's shoes,
noosed the double knot of a tie around my bare neck,

gaunt nun in the mirror, touching herself. I learnt
the Stations of Bereavement, the icon of my face
in each bleak frame; but all those months
he was going away from me, dwindling
to the shrunk size of a snapshot, going,

going. Till his name was no longer a certain spell
for his face. The last hair on his head
floated out from a book. His scent went from the house.
The will was read. See, he was vanishing
to the small zero held by the gold of my ring.

Then he was gone. Then he was legend, language;
my arm on the arm of the schoolteacher-the shock
of a man's strength under the sleeve of his coat-
along the hedgerows. But I was faithful
for as long as it took. Until he was memory.

So I could stand that evening in the field
in a shawl of fine air, healed, able
to watch the edge of the moon occur to the sky
and a hare thump from a hedge; then notice
the village men running towards me, shouting,

behind them the women and children, barking dogs,
and I knew. I knew by the sly light
on the blacksmith's face, the shrill eyes
of the barmaid, the sudden hands bearing me
into the hot tang of the crowd parting before me.

He lived. I saw the horror on his face.
I heard his mother's crazy song. I breathed
his stench; my bridegroom in his rotting shroud,
moist and dishevelled from the grave's slack chew,
croaking his cuckold name, disinherited, out of his time.

Carol Ann Duffy

[QUOTE]Originally posted by Raggy♥Doll:
On the Ning Nang Nong

Checks

This is by Benjamin Zephaniah, a rasta poet that kids love. He's a great performance poet.

Wot a Pair


I waz walking down Wyefront street
When me trousers ran away,
I waz feeling incomplete
But still me trousers would not stay,
When I found where they had gone
De pair addressed me rather blunt,
And they told me they were sick of being put on
Back to front.

I told dem I would treat dem good
And wear dem back to back,
I promised dem protection
From a friend who is a mac,
Me trousers did not believe a single word I had to say,
And me underpants were laughing
When me trousers ran away.