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8 October 2009 342 views 4 Comments

Let it never be said that amid the heaving, sweating ranks of the morris dancing fraternity there doesn’t beat the heart of a poet or two.  If you need any help with the dance jargon, feel free to come along to a practice session & we’ll explain everything.

Maurice Dancing – by Roger Foster

If you haven’t felt blood coursing through your arteries and veins
From the heys, half-gyps and capers ‘til your arms and legs complain

If you haven’t felt connection with the dancers in your set
If you haven’t felt that rhythm then you ain’t felt nothing yet!

I’ve danced with old Methuselah, I’ve danced with kids of six
I’ve danced with soldiers, sailors and used cricket bats for sticks

I’ll dance until hell freezes and I’ll dance until I’m frail
If dancing’s made illegal then I’ll bloody dance in gaol

I’ve morrised on with old King Kong and busked at Peyton Place
I’ve backed to back with Mr Spock in the final frontier – space!

I’ve picked out lots of dancing spots on high in Biggles’ plane
And if HG fixes his time machine I‘ll do it all again!

And when my time is over and my feet no longer fly
When the time has come to parley with that big squire in the sky

When he brings to bear that awful stare on a certain ne’er-do-well
I’ll flourish my hankies with my friends and process down to hell!


  • Linda said:

    Being included into this man’s family I can imagine how it feels like to be a Morris-dancer. And this poem is just awesome! :)

  • Rambling Sid said:

    Hello there, happened on the site and wondered if you might like this one, there’s more on the site.

    The Bus Trip

    Long days gone by when I was young
    And quite the roving blade
    I drove a bus around this town
    An honest, worthy trade.

    One day I took a coach along
    Upon a mystery tour
    With a party from the Blind Institute
    A curious job for sure.

    No sooner had we left the town
    Than a man came up to me
    And said, “Driver, what good’s a scenic tour
    To those who cannot see?

    A benefactor paid for this,
    A good man from the town,
    We couldn’t hurt his feelings
    By turning his offer down.

    But could you find a country pub
    Where we can slake our thirst
    And spend a pleasant hour or so
    In ale and song immersed.

    And can you make this little inn
    Beside a village green
    So the young ones can play football
    Where the air is fresh and clean?”

    “Indeed I know just such a place
    Where they’ll treat you fair and kind
    But how can these kids play football
    When all of them are blind?”

    “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,
    A phrase we all know well.
    Inside this special football
    There is a little bell.

    Where eyesight fails, to compensate,
    The hearing comes to play.
    The ball position can be fixed
    Though it be far away.”

    I dropped them off outside the pub
    And our farewells were said
    And to a lay by down the road
    I went to rest my head

    I came back two hours later
    But couldn’t get my load
    For police cars and a riot van
    Were blocking up the road.

    “Constable, what’s going on?
    It was so peaceful here”
    The officer sadly shook his head
    And wiped away a tear.

    “A bus load of Hull football thugs,
    I swear by my last breath,
    Attacked our village morris men
    And one was kicked to death!”

  • Rambling Sid said:

    Try this one too. Written for my late sister who ran the only (rather elderly) Morris troop on the Costa Blanca in Spain. You can catch them on You tube under “Terri Horvath Morris”,

    I’m an ancient Morris dancer
    And no longer will I roam.
    My boundless joy is now confined
    In this old folkies’ home.

    The doorsign reads “Dunjingling”
    And last time I attempted a” hey”
    I did myself a great mischief
    So I’ve had to call it a day.

    But I dance the zimmer frame polka,
    No greater mover excels,
    And Ethel and Gladys go ga-ga
    When I tinkle my rusty old bells.

    And in rare moments of ecstasy,
    As I shuffle through some of my sets,
    They remove their dentures and clack them aloud
    Beating rhythm as on castanets.

    Last Saturday night I was dancing a jig
    When me knees both began to buckle.
    “It’s more than your belt’s done these ten last long years,”
    Said Gladys, with many a chuckle.

    Though stung by her words, I had to admit
    Her observation was clever
    For brain cells come and brain cells go
    But fat cells live forever.

    Not that me knees were a problem
    The way that they are for so many
    In the days of my youth you could still obtain
    Two ape knees for just one old penny.

    My accordian’s beyond my control
    It sounds like the croaking of frogs
    And to stop me waking the snoozers,
    They’ve put rubber soles on me clogs.

    They’ve banned both the longsword and rapper
    Not through health and safety fears
    But because the cleaners were getting brassed off
    With picking up fingers and ears.

    At least you’re surrounded by friends,
    On the days when your recall is rotten,
    They help you invent some new memories
    To replace all the ones you’ve forgotten.

    When you look in the mirror and see
    That six pack, now drooped and inert
    Praise the Lord that your eyesight’s endured
    And be grateful that wrinkles don’t hurt.

    Life must go on, though I quite forget why,
    Though your days may be happy or sad
    Considering the other alternative,
    Dunjingling is not quite so bad.

  • roger foster said:

    I think I’ve met my match…….

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