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Senior Member
Yuke (CTG)
Yuke
Yuke, you learned to play chords
on your dad's ukelele strumming
to George Formby uke and croon,
"I'm leaning on a lamppost
at the corner of the street in case
a certain little lady comes by."
The toothy comic actor leered out
between the first licks you played
in your deaf gran's front parlor
amid antimacassars and aspidistras,
a cracked 78 on the gramophone.
Lancs lad, you graduated from uke
to Stratocaster, robust as a black pud—
a plump blood sausage—sounds sweet
as an Eccles cake, raisins and sugar,
you would peal an archipelago of notes.
Smoky northern clubs; morning stale beer
in city jiggers, ciggies on our lower lips
as under a wet sky, we lugged our gear
home. Lads who might have been us
blinked at us and ignored us,
got back to their scratch footer.
Christopher T. George
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Last edited by ChrisGeorge; 11-18-2006 at 03:46 AM.
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Senior Member
Another rock group poem:
Prees Heath, Summer '68
Our group’s van expires on the abandoned
airbase: a transport cafe proprietor, broken-
nosed, lemon-toothed, force-feeds me coffee.
A sharp stink of Lysol plus Ohio Expresso.
Garth and Pete click dominoes, don't glance up
as I stumble out and puke in the yellow gorse.
Empty runways, camouflage-gray hangars:
heathland stretching in every direction,
ghost Mosquitoes buzz the chickweed cement.
I swab my mouth. Another riff to play.
Christopher T. George
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