Scunthorpe is justly famous for its ugliness
And the rampant lasciviousness of its inhabitants;
With what horror I recall encountering a gent there,
A seriously senior slapper, widely acclaimed as
The least inhibited pensioner in northern Lincolnshire.

In my gilded youth I'd wandered into the bar
Of some grotty hostelry and got propositioned by this old ****;
On the pretext of offering to gift me fifty quid
He dragged me upstairs and ravished me totally,  
Showing his elderly anatomy 's most private parts
In prurient abandon. Afterwards, I wondered how long
Before the myriad love bites on my buttocks would fade?

There's a lovely little place, in Scunthorpe,
I go whenever I can.
I try to visit it every day,
As does many a man.

Such wonderful times I've had there,
Memories I won't forget,
There's always something fun to do,
Particularly when it's wet.

O but my quest for love
(or at least some hot ***** ***)
has been a hard road, harder than gravel,
but finally I was pretty
sure that Eros' arrow had scored
a ******* bullseye
as I re-read the fifteen page email
of concentrated vile **** and obscenity
from the fabulously gorgeous teenage triplets
who were enamoured of me
and my open crotch photos;
certainly the accompanying attachments
of filth and sisterly depravity boded well
for our meeting, a picnic in the park.

My wildest dreams were exceeded
as I saw them waiting in their half-**** beauty
and, after a few bottles of champagne
and a crate of oysters (their treat),
they carried me off, cackling like ***-mad hens,
to their waiting chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce
to take me to their promised penthouse pad
for a nuit d'amour never to be forgotten;
"Where are we going girls?" I enquired
and how I screamed when they answered Scunthorpe.

(20 minute poetry)

Them old Romans had good ideas, burn down the cities, cut off your ears, but we didn't take heed,
preferring to bleed I suppose,
you can't smell 'jack **** when they lop off your nose and you can't poke it in to what doesn't concern,
let it burn.

And who gives a ****?

the common man
the man on the street who treds warily?

Dragged into this world and dropped into the next,
who can expect any more?

I'm watching cities arise on the horizon and thinking they all look the same,
London
Paris
Scunthorpe and Rome, but what's in a name?

Babylon coming one day
when Jericho falls.

It's not trumpets I hear only
curses caulking
the back of my throat.

On a small boat in a big sea and later
the creator will be coming for me.

Always on the horizon,
eyes on the present and past.

The things sent to try me
flew by me,
the past went so fast and
the future won't last
very long

bleak?

I streaked like blue lightning
across the darkening storm clouds
and was fished out of the river
spent,
the past went so fast.

My gunpowder was louder when
I was young and stood prouder,
the cordite was alright until age
wrote the page on the face of this cliff.

and stiff are the joints
which all points
to a solidified end.

a bit like directions to Scunthorpe
which is.
somewhere up North.

It's like buying a one way ticket
to Scunthorpe or Southport or God help me
Ullapool,
only a fool would consider doing it

It's like asking for a shilling when
the electric goes and you're sat in
the wired up chair

Knock bleedin' knock is anyone home?
is there anyone inside there?

Sawdust?

Knowledge is a terrible thing and ignorance is full of undercurrents which drag you slowly to your doom.

'Ready for departure'
is their signature,
'mind the doors,
stand clear'
are the words that
I hear.

Tuesday
and remember
we had Tuesday
last week too
it feels like I'm on a revolving
stage
which moves around you
and by you I mean them.

West Ruislip
sounds nice
but
everywhere does when
you've never been there
except for
Scunthorpe.

I'm not going that far
because it's too far
for me
and it'd be fair to say
that's the fair to middling
way
which is another way of
saying
I'm okay.

The fickle luck of my sweet cunning stunt  
as my tutor says " you're a shining wit    
the prime frier tuck of all cunning runts  
a stabbit Rew, the cooking flue, of linguists..."  
  
I picked Lucy my furry ***** cat  
she who once had the name of Mary Hinge  
her dam was Betty Swallocks she said duck fat  
would get me cobbing throcked and Grapes by the rinch
  
But that weren't so muk'n fuch till sigging fruck  
gross Pat Fenis was a right witch banker  
full of featy sweet and featy swannies  
from Penistone not Scunthorpe, a bush whacker?