(An exercise in Scouse narrative verse spliced with a little poetry)

 

 

Girls are funny things sometimes, aren`t they?

I mean, funny peculiar.

Take, for instance, the other day:

There was this gazelle of a girl,

Wide eyed, long-legged,

I tell you: In no wise did she walk, Being so full of grace,

But she made an elegant progress from place to place.

 

Boy, was I smitten with this bird,

And, being a professed disciple of the written word-

Anxious to be eased of my romantic smart –

I got a pen and paper, to empty out my heart.

Until, after spending a long, hard night of toil,

I switched off what passes for the midnight oil,

Folded my poetic script

And got some kip.

 

The following night

While she was making the Grafton ballroom bright

And beauteous – just by being there,

I said to myself, `Son, You`d better stir

Yourself`` So I did, and went across to her.

I forget just what I said. Something, I think,

About how we poets drink

From fountaining beauty such as hers,

And then, with new-rinsed tongues

Chime out lovely songs,

And intricate out interfluent airs.

Anyway, it was all good stuff,

And, when I`d said enough

I brought it to a cease-

Gave her my masterpiece-

And waited with blushing modesty and boyish charms

For this bewitching beauty to melt into my arms.

 

Well, she read it. I must say that – at least it did get read.-

And then – do you know what she said?

She gave it me back, and said `Ah, go `way`.

What a rotten, horrible thing to say, `Ah, go `way`!

Well, I fell back, and while I was in mid-stagger

This Carnaby-clad, crop-haired, swagger

Of an excuse for a feller sidles alongside.

And in a voice thick with suavey pride

Said, `dance girl` And she said `yis`!

And off the pair of them skated across the floor,

Closer than the two halves of a closed cockle-shell!

`Blimey!` Sez I, `I`ve had enough of this`

And slunk away – three legged, if you count my tail as well –

And made my way blindly towards the door,

Fuming fiercer than the Divil in Hell.

And as I went out I crunched the poem up tight,

And with a Stevie Gerrard rocket of a shot

Hoofed it into the night…

 

…Right in the face of this big, six-foot clot!

Well, it looked like trouble – in fact it looked like a fight,

With knuckle –bunch clusters rainin` in from port.

So I braced myself. But this feller was a sport.

He picked the poem up, brought it into the light,

Un-crumpled it and read it – let out a long, low hiss

And whistle of appreciation and said, `Eh, can I have this`?

Could he have it! Blimey, he could have used it to wipe his…nose.

So I asked him why, and he said, `There`s this girl, called Rose,

Who I`m getting nowhere with, comes here every week

and, alter a few words here and there, this poem might do the trick`

Well, I could have told him but then, Why should I speak?

`Every man for his own mistakes` sez I, so I told him, `take it quick

Pal, it`s yours` and wishing him all the best,

Meandered morosely homeward to my rest.

 

I saw him again at the following Saturday`s dance,

Looking a bit twitch-lipped.

`How`s the romance

Mate`, I quipped,

`Have you cracked it yet with my ode?`

`Nah, she wasn`t here last week` he said, `give us a chance`

And with that he strode,

To down a few gulps of courage, over to the bar.

I was dry myself, so I went across that far

With him, and downed a pint of Tetley`s best bitter ale.

For a minute I nearly weakened and told my own sad tale

Of the previous week. But I rallied, and hardened my heart.

This feller obviously considered himself to be smart,

So me? I`d just sit back and play it cool

While he went over and made himself a fool.

 

Where is this Rose?`, I asked, taking a long, slow, gander across the floor.

He pointed. `That`s her in the black dress, talking to the blond one, over by the door`.`

 

You should have seen Rose!

She was fantastic!

 

Fit to be with all the world`s beauties classed,

She stood there making easy conversation,

Compelling the eyes of every man that passed

To offer their own glance of admiration.

She was the very poise of tranquil grace,

Every movement measured and serene,

Now and then widening her eyes and lightening her face

To shaft a smile to some close friend she`d seen.

She got up to dance, and gave some fitter`s mate

A preview of Paradise long before his time.

And in my own heart I began to feel the spate

Of surging poetry ease itself into rhyme.

 

A sonnet began to murmur in my brain…But wait!

Hadn`t I been through all this before?

Was I going mad? Wasn`t I the feller who knew the score?

Not just to praise, but to possess her was the thing!

She was a queen, No poet peasant me – I`d be a poet King!

 

`Will Shakespeare` was still bolstering up his nerve,

So I said I was going the gents – made a swerve –

Then, sly as a U-boat homing in for the kill,

I threaded my way across the floor, until

I came abeam the place where she was sat.

I wasn`t worried, I had it all off pat,

(I`d studied that feller last week) I came out of the ruck,

Struck up a nonchalant stance,

Smirked her a smile, eyed her (like she was in luck)

And drawled, `Right, girl, dance?`

 

You know, when I think back, she only said, `No thanks`

But that doesn`t really describe it at all.

For in that `No`

An icy blizzard blanched

My heart bleak. And in that `thanks`

The entire northern wall

Of all the Himalayas avalanched

It`s snow.

 

Spurned

I turned,

And as I tottered back to bar I passed

My rival walking bravely to his fate.

I should have gone then, but I couldn`t, I just had to wait.

And my fascinated eyes forced me to look on, aghast,

A normal-nosed Cyrano standing there

While this cod-poet of a Christian read to her

My misfit poem…and he clicked! he clicked!

In fact she looked so pleased I think she`d have licked

His shoes if he`d felt like askin`.

And there he stood – like a kid with a lollipop – baskin`

In her sweet smile,

And after a while

They arm-in-armed it to the upstairs snug,

While I stood there, the new world champion mug.

 

I think…I think then I must have had too much to drink.

That`s how I`ve wound up in Cheapside clink.

A leerin` `orror of a fat Q.C. with a plummy voice

Gave me a choice:

`Unless he pays

he said, `the thirty pounds he serves the thirty days`

Thirty quid! Just for-kickin`-in–a-bettin`-shop-winder!

(And all the money Manny Charles has had off me!)

 

And so you see

Although my plight might seem somewhat dejectin`

At least it leaves me leisure for reflectin

That girls are funny things sometimes, aren`t they?

I mean – funny peculiar.