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The Drunken Lyricist


We met that grey dull evening on the east shore.

Roaring round the bend he came, flat out

at fifteen miles an hour, and stopped.  We had to shout

till he turned off his engine.  It's going to pour

it looks like:  me.  Oa, I'm haardly cancerned

thee night wi weather, man!  he said, flat cap askew.

Gap-toothed smile.  Torched cheeks.  Eyes' Atlantic blue.

Hiv you seen any?  Weemun?  Whisky burned

its golden road in him, and he would search.

's that wun, man? the shore's dark speck.

Not waiting a reply, through the bright wreck

of that grey evening, he roared off, with a lurch.

His tractor almost reared on its back tyres.

Fifteen miles an hour flat out, parched by amber fires.


Gerry Cambridge



Gerry Cambridge.  From The Shell House,

Scottish Cultural Press; reprinted by permission
of the author.

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