HE WAS A POET
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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