Poets’ Corner
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!
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! :)
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?â€
“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?â€
“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.â€
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 hereâ€
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!â€
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 “Dunjinglingâ€
And last time I attempted a†heyâ€
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,â€
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.
I think I’ve met my match…….
Leave your response!
Upcoming Events
Pages
Last Tweets
Twitter username is not configuredAustralian morris dancing
Morris in other countries
Morris-related
Recent Posts
Most Commented
Most Viewed