Poetry

Often whilst on training days and at races I find myself surrounded by uncouth, uncultured ignoramuses. I try and pass on a quick Haiku at the finish line or offer a rhyming couplet praising the crisp winter morning to a fellow runner and i get called a poof, or at best ignored.

I bet this doesn't happen to great chess masters.

Anyway, their indifference is your gain my fortunate readers, I'll try and keep you up to speed with my creative output. Below is one of my hidden gems, written after a brush with death at a 'foam' party. I took inspiration from Half Caste by John Agard, but adapted it to my inimitable local parlance.

Y'Aye, A summer's sky

Y'Aye, A swallow's cry

Why's the foam in my eye?

Why's the foam choking me to death?

Why's the foam stuck in my gullet?

Why did the Magpie's employ Ruud Gullit?

Y'aye, A Geordies cry

Heard across the disco

Y'aye, A Geordies cry

Why did no-one come to save me?