The friends I have met along the way,
This story I will tell...
About the many fellas,
Of all I knew so well...
A mate of mine named Gerry,
A wirey looking lad...
His gnarled old looking smile,
Which was the best defence he ever had...
An honest bloke and all,
He sits there quietly at the bar...
With his rollies at the ready,
And the form guide not too far...
There’s this other bloke called Beattsie ,
He looks Johnny Howard...
When it comes to drinking beer,
I seen that he’s no coward...
He tries to crack a joke,
But all to no avail...
He’s hard to understand,
As I think he’s talking braille...
Another he called Kenny
Part Scotsman I’ve been told...
He likes to play the pipes,
Although he’s getting old...
He rustles up some wind,
And he tries to have a blow...
As the pipes begin to squeal,
He starts to twirl his moe...
It’s a catchy little tune,
For a tone deaf bloke at that...
But it sounds more like to me,
That he strangled a bloody cat...
Well there’s many stories left to tell,
About the blokes that I’ve met
I’ll have to write another poem,
Maybe put it on the net...
Len Newey 2011