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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
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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