The poet was a Potter I have just found out
my grandmother as well was just so nee’d
I know of course there were a lot of them about
but all my genealogy
sits undiscovered in the shade,
though perhaps there’s some connection there
behind the soot and time and grime
lost in the streets that are no more
which feature in our rhymes.

Early Scrawlings Of The Geographically Questionable Mersey Poet

I went down to Morpeth Dock
to hear the gun greet one o’clock
the cannon balls whizzed overhead
and landed deep in Birkenhead
they knocked the head off old man Laird
which shocked a watching Liverbird
who’d fell asleep upon his train
and ended up in old Green Lane
so resigned to use the tunnel bus
he’d stuck around to see the fuss
of statues being blown asunder
with shock and awe and sense of wonder
before he took the Kingsway home
and back up upon his perch alone
as his judy was out on the lash
with a diddy man from Knotty Ash
who wasn’t all that small at all
as she’d found out at old Speke Hall.
Anyhow I do digress
and apologise now for all this mess
of song and rhyme and disconnection
It just came out upon reflection.