He
was a poet
But
he wore an unfashionable raincoat
He
was a mystic but the grey weather blocked his view,
He
was English through and through
He
believed in the old traditions
He
longed for them to return
He
dreamed of pie and mash shops
Reappearing
on the high street.
He
was a poet
He
wrote loads of words
He
was a philosopher
He
longed to be heard,
He
sat in Lyons Tea Houses
Over
a cup of tea and a buttered scone
He
would express his views
To
anyone who would listen.
He
is a poet
Some
think he’s funny in the head
He
walks down the high street with his carrier bags,
He
talks to himself
Sometimes
he finds communication hard
But
he believes that one day
The
world will hear his words.
Frank
Bangay
August
06
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