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Thread: The Road to Himazazz (CTG)

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    Default The Road to Himazazz (CTG)

    The Road to Himazazz

    I was playing glannies on the garden path
    when Sis told me my Grandad had died.
    I could no longer ask for barley. My best
    glanny had been kiboshed by a bogey.

    A cat's lick and a promise before the funeral,
    Sis combed my hair, parted it knife straight.
    It was a Wednesday morning, the glistening
    funeral courtege streamed past the shops:

    Mrs. Preston watched the hearse roll by
    then bustled to Bousfield’s for five pounds
    of King Edward spuds. In the betting shop,
    Uncle Bruce the undertaker placed a bet

    for luck, to send Granddad on the road
    to Himazazz, and he sang and sobbed,
    "We strolled a few feet more to Himazazz.
    To Himazazz! Himazazz the pub next door."

    Christopher T. George

    A few explanations--

    Himazazz is a place in a comic song that my Uncle Bill (Billy Matchett), the vaudeville artist, used to sing. I guess it's a mythical place since the name does not come up on a google search except in relation to the song. The first line of the song goes, "Down in Pennsyltucky where the pencils grow" which might imply the song was written by an American, however, since the ending of the song mentions a pub I think the song must be of British origins not American, though I don't know the composer. Bruce Williams, who is the undertaker referred to in the poem, and who had premises off Lodge Lane, was also a songwriter who wrote songs for George Formby under the name of Eddie Latta and it could have been one of his.

    See http://www.tiddyogg.co.uk/himazazz.htm


    ADVERTISING




    I guess in using "Himazazz" in the title I am conscious that a poem should have a good title as well as good text, so I thought this title would be intriguing.

    Of course, "glannies" are small marbles that the children play with in Liverpool, and a "bogey" is a bigger marble. "Glanny" may be somehow derived from glass, or "glass eye." "Barley" is the term an English child uses for sanctuary or safety in a game of tag (or tick as they call it).

    Chris
    Christopher T. George
    Editor, Ripperologist
    Editor, Loch Raven Review
    http://christophertgeorge.blogspot.com/
    Chris on Flickr and on MySpace

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    Wake For an Old Mate

    Yer done up like a fo'penny rabbit
    gorrup like a pox-doctor's clerk,
    decked out like a Mayday 'orse,
    in yer bezzies. I just can't look.

    Mates mill round, yer old judy sobs,
    I'm lushed like de landlady's cat,
    kaylied on crater and black 'n' tans,
    parlatic drunk at yer wake, mate.

    You wuz under de arm for a spell,
    had de Cairo crud, de Rangoon runs,
    sawdust wuz cummin outa yer knees,
    under der crotch, on an ergent note.

    Da Father give de special blessin.
    Now yer gone an I'm feelin antwacky.
    Darrell dew yew, gorrup in yer duds!
    Dat's put de top 'at on it, mate.

    Christopher T. George
    Christopher T. George
    Editor, Ripperologist
    Editor, Loch Raven Review
    http://christophertgeorge.blogspot.com/
    Chris on Flickr and on MySpace

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    Moolah

    I work in a cage with bundles of thousands
    of pound notes bound for the Bank of England.
    I've resigned from Martin's Bank, so instead
    of reconciling bobs and sixpences in Aigburth
    they've sent me downtown for a bit o' temptation:
    a fortune to make me comfy in America. Hey ho!

    I should have gone over the school wall like Tim
    who's gone to Hamburg, living it up in a brothel,
    but here I am heaving aluminium suitcases of quids
    into an armored car, in the era of the Great Train
    Robbery: men in balaclava helmets. We drive
    tense by the Sanctuary Stone of Liverpool Fair.

    Behind wire, I glimpse Ian from school, laughing
    in a platoon of business suits as we approach
    the columned, smoke-blackened Bank of England.

    The moment's gone, matey! Long gone quids!
    We brake in the walled, barbed-wire car park,
    deliver the moolah. I'm handed a carbon receipt.

    Christopher T. George
    Christopher T. George
    Editor, Ripperologist
    Editor, Loch Raven Review
    http://christophertgeorge.blogspot.com/
    Chris on Flickr and on MySpace

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    Scouser Joe

    I will purchase our future
    with a pocket full of lint.


    My bank account's empty,
    it's gasping for air,
    but I'll always keep
    my songs to you safe
    in my scuffed, patched bag.

    I'm your suitor with a suitcase
    with battered, gummed-over
    decals that chart my voyage
    from Biaritz to Cheadle Hume,
    Tulsa, Guadalajara, and Rome.

    I have songs from everywhere,
    each thoroughfare I've tramped,
    Sunset Boulevard to Lime Street,
    Tin Pan Alley to the Appian Way,
    to sing my songs written for you.

    My monkey Chico dances on his chain
    as I turn the handle on my barrel organ.
    I'm Scouser Joe, your vagabond gypsy.
    Hear me sing of my love for you,
    sing for another crumb of honey cake.

    Christopher T. George
    Christopher T. George
    Editor, Ripperologist
    Editor, Loch Raven Review
    http://christophertgeorge.blogspot.com/
    Chris on Flickr and on MySpace

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