The Punk Poet

An evening with the Punk Poet
. . . John Cooper Clarke.
 A National Treasure …
if Bedlam was a nation.

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Fleeing Chicken Town, evidently

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. . . with Hugo Race , me ,

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. . . and assorted culprits from the Wreckery.

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Profoundly, the ‘punk poet’
asks for a coat.
So Hugo raced to offer his shirt.
As the seeker searches for a light,
the High Lipster thanked Hugo
with a solemn benediction ;
“May your Kingdom
. . . be in Armageddon”.
Knowing that the ‘punk poet’
had just spent ten years
in an open-necked shirt,
I pretended not to listen.
Plus my coat was Irish linen!

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Some came for communion.

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Some for enlightenment.

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Some came to worship.

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Others came to learn . . . . and admire his tan.

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And we all chipped in with an
urgent blood transfusion.

God bless you John Cooper Clarke
Stay strong … keep on keeping on.

Photos: david redpath © 2018

3 thoughts on “The Punk Poet”

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