Friday, 15 October 2010

Martin Figura: Yorkshire Last Barman Poet

‘ow do
I’m t’Yorkshire’s last barman pooet
a reet Bobby dazzler
I see Wakefield suppin’t’fabulous cocktails
I mek tykes get stinkin’ on summat
I sturr and shek
t’sex on t’bus
t’Schnapps med from fuss
t’Knaresborough nipper
t’Yorkshire Ripper
I mek stuff with abuse and broth
t’pink whippet
t’3-toed goth
I mek drinks so sweaty and jazzy
t’iced cuppa
t’ay oopa
t’ecky thump
t’Scarborough snikket
t’coal ‘ole
t’livin’ ower t’brush
‘appen y’reckon
yer a reight gud sooart
put wood i’th’oil
quit faffin’
git kaylied

Leanne Moden: The Last Dinnerlady Poet

I am the last dinnerlady poet.
I see the youth forcing down the fabulous tripe I serve.
The youth feeling queasy on something I boil or bake. 
The leftover fish pie, the cauliflower surprise
The cold soup with the skins
The fishfingers from tins.

I make things with suspicious lumps
Unidentifiable meat, boiled cabbage in clumps.
I make meals so unappealing
The veg is grey with the sauce congealing.
Jellied sprouts with sauerkraut,
Gravy so thick, you'll need an ice-pick.

Kids, you're so tolerant of my inedible munch
Why not go into town and have a sandwich for lunch?
The kitchen is closed. 

Michael Egan: The last American beat barman

America I am the last to give you my all and nothing
I see America drinking the human war I make
Americans fucking themselves with the atom bomb I shake
the angelic taking off of clothes
the sex full of tears in libraries
the insane demands
the perfect machinery
I make saints out of want
the sinister joker
those three-toed blossoms
I smoke Communists every chance I get
the closeted English rose
the Chinese lays
the unspoken raver of Amens
the vibrating visionary
the reader of time’s cover
the Marxist on the candystore corner
America you’re devoted to my national resources
but if you want to get holy
why don’t you just get down and get a job
all openings are barred.