Re-post from earlier last year - now with audio and music backing

Thirty Plus Years In An Open Necked Shirt.

Johnny Clarke, Johnny Clarke
a walking bag of bones
staggers out onto the stage
like Woody from the Stones
rapid fire delivery
sprays all with Salford tones
jitters, jives, ducks and dives
wrestling with the microphone

Johnny Clarke, Johnny Clarke
in much need of a comb
showed us around Beezley Street
left Psycle sluts at home
a whirlwind force of nature
dressed up in monochrome
DNA of poetry with
rabid, punk rock, chromosome.

Johnny Clarke, Johnny Clarke
raging zeitgeist troubadour
kicked Chicken Town in the guts
and left the audience wanting more
cocky sexagenarian poet
rock and roll right to the core
spitting rhymes, rattling rhythms
oozing class from every pore.

Johnny Clarke, Johnny Clarke
recent Salford Doctorate
ask any man in the street
he’ll tell you Johnny’s fucking great
can I ask a massive favour?
when Carol Ann has done her spate
get this streetwise wordsmith
as the first punk poet laureate?

Johnny Clarke, Johnny Clarke
with snaking, swivelling hips
leads us into Chicken Town
expletives dripping from his lips
his banter between poems
littered with jokes and quips
off to check his pension
then cashing in his chips.