Poetry

Gorgeous George

John Whitworth

Standing under the light you were, your hair plastered flat on your head,
Standing there plain in the rain, and looking far from well.
Says I, “It’s good to see you, George. I thought you were bloody dead.”
Says you, “How true, but how can you bloody tell?” 

I’m as wise as a rabbit, as sad as a stone,
As late as a lemur and long as alone,
As merry as Manchester, huge as my hat,
As free as a fairy and better than that.

So you take from your suit a long cheroot and your hand is firm and steady,
While the smoke goes curling, swirling upwards like a prayer. 
And you’re standing tall doing bugger all, no, not till you’re good and ready,
With a good cigar and a bunch of stars to share.

You’re as damp as a dormouse, as fat as a fart,
As blind as a barmaid and hot as my heart,
As proud as a porcupine, gay as a ghost,
As happy as Horlicks and pissed as a post. 

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child and that’s the long and short of it,
A big face damp beneath the lamp, with the rain and the tears I’m shedding.
Sometimes I feel it’s a real bum deal and I shudder at the thought of it.
Sometimes I feel like a whatsit at a wedding.

We’re as queer as the calculus, dapper as dancing,
As spry as the rodents and rash as romancing,
As common as crocodiles, fraught as a feather,
As tight as tomorrow and wild as the weather.

John Whitworth