Hello and good day to all
Please find below my three poems as entries to your fabulously apt poetry competition. I am early, like all good boy scouts and I believe I have met the brief and provided verses true to the commoner, the common good and the music of poetry.
My important details are as follows:
Name: Peter Boydell
Phone number: +44(0)161 406 7038
John Stamper: Son of Pete and Dot (both dec.), Brother to ‘The Ox’, Ex-Fiancé to Rach’ and Father to Emily (with ex-wife) and Zach (with Rach’).
Colossal. Northern. Meaty.
A turn of phrase so cutting to the gut
that his dad’s butchers has never shut.
How d’ya like your beef, Mr Stamper?
Knock it’s horns off and wipe it’s arse.
Broad. Triggered. Partial.
A vivid wit so ready at the lip
his mums landlady-ship is ‘ever at the sip.
Gerruz a proper drink, ey. How much…?
Y’r chargin’ more than a wounded rhino.
Critical. Bald. Hilarious.
Remarks, you’ll find, so entwined in his mind.
One uttered; then another is never far behind.
She’s so old she cut the ribbon at Stonehenge.
‘er Newton’s are like a witchdoctor’s necklace.
Programmed. Bullish. Hungry.
A man of a kind who is predisposed to find
on rebound from daily grind, a belly, fully lined.
Now I know why they call it hunters chicken.
I can’t find any in it, Rach’.
Lavatorial. Bold. Lewd.
Albeit, contemplating shit,
It’s Rach’ to sit and John to bear it.
Nothin’ survives after she’s been in there. Nothin’.
Jeez Rach’ it’s like rotting poultry.
Fuelled. Playful. Blokeish.
4×4: black, snorkel and rack.
Tyre on the back and mud at the track.
Arrrigt big guns. Crankin’ up the Barbie.
Don’t tell Rach or she’ll go off like a two-bob rocket.
Father. Practical. Cutting.
No Chance… You’ve more chance of plaiting fog.
That’s norranaircut…Gerrin kitchen and I’ll give you a proper ‘aircut.
Sore. Shaped. Shoring.
Old skewers stabbing through her.
The bear won’t dance to music newer.
She was as dirty as a crow’s beak.
Never trust a woman with a round neck.
But the last word must go
to our catchphrase king:
“Get one suit for all events:
hatchings, matchings and dispatchings.”
Credit to Karen at the wheel of the bus.
First familiar face.
The merry spirit of our morn commute;
inspiring smiles beyond the route.
Gratitude for Gregor: escalator engineer.
for the flow of folk.
The unsung hero of our rise to work
lifting financier, retailer, admin clerk.
A bow to Brendan, our train trolley dolly.
Light on the line.
The welcome treat passing through the aisle
with a wink, a joke, no change and a smile.
Praise for Patricia, mental health nurse.
Doing for others what others cannot
Selflessly bettering the nation’s lot.
A tribute for Tony, assembly plant technician.
Cup ‘o’ tea. Competent.
Producing, as efficiently as he is able,
Bringing investment to the country’s table.
Appreciation for us, the extra-ordinary.
The pillars. The Props.
The buck as it stops.
Chris The Canvasser
Well done to my brother, Chris
who’s put his money where his mouth is.
A beautiful wife and a child, aged one.
A brand new home and a van to run.
A man whose plate you’d think was full
is sick and tired of Tory bull.
So doth commence a noble cause,
he’s going to knock on people’s doors.
But St Helens is a safe red seat
so he’s looked beyond his local street
to find a marginal area where
the chance to swing a vote is there.
To Chester, post his working day,
and maybe one or two will sway
with real concern for the state of the nation;
the rising cost of education,
public sector privatization,
nurse wages low, behind inflation.
Dismantling of the NHS
and corporations paying less.
My brother’ll speak directly to
ordinary folk, like me and you
(And with god he goes, god does loves triers)
who, despite the shameful media bias,
can see the Tory plan’s designed
to keep the richest pockets lined.
Whereas JC plans to help the many
and fairly distribute the penny.
I’m proud of Chris, more so today,
for contributing in his way.
And whichever MP gets to sit,
my brother will have done his bit.
And what an inspirational story
you’d seldom get from a fuckin’ Tory.
 Rhyming slang for teeth. Referring to Newton Heath, a post I.R. factory town in North Manchester.