Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “ Daisy “.

Good afternoon Sarah,

Back in the West Midlands this week, in Birmingham, which gave the world such luminaries as Enoch Powell, Ozzy Osbourne, and Duran Duran – no wonder there were riots.

Thank you to everyone who subscribed during Radiothon – if you didn’t get around to it, or like me, you’ve been away, fear not, there’s still time to sign up and be in the running for some great prizes.

Very sad to hear of the death earlier in the week of “Dirty” Kurty – Kurt Lindtner, harp player with Melbourne outfits Harem Scarem and Teddy Turner & The Bunsen Burners and T-Shirt designer for half the bands in St Kilda.

So this weeks poem is dedicated to “Dirty” Kurty – Vale Kurt.

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
[audio:JVG_Poem20110828.mp3]

Also have a listen to the tracks on the new EP “Once We Were Kings Of The World


Daisy

Drinker’s at The Bear, were a straightforward, crusty lot
Council workers mostly; what you saw was what you got

If you tried spinning bullshit you didn’t stand a chance
Even brown bread on your sandwich would earn a sideways glance

But everyone liked Daisy, though none had seen her face
They’d hear her, usually evenings, as she strolled about the place

That she was accepted, was surprising all the more
Given Daisy died, allegedly, two centuries before

It started out as creaking, then footsteps in the hall
The gaffer woke one night to someone banging on the wall

When he tuned the lights on there was no-one in the room
As he closed the door he smelt the scent of cheap perfume

One evening after closing, he was stacking up the chairs
He clearly heard the sound of someone coming down the stairs

Then clunking in the corridor, like a dragging chain
Once again he searched; Once again in vain

Rose drank at The Bear, a librarian, retired
The chance to do some digging soon had her interest fired

She trawled the Parish Records; left not a stone unturned
Even hard nosed sceptics were amazed by what she’d learned

In the early eighteen hundreds, the landlord died, alas
Tapping barrels, in the cellar, he was overcome by gas

His wife, whose name was Daisy, overwhelmed by grief and dread
Died, not two months later, of a broken heart it’s said

A newspaper account, years after the affair
Tells of supernatural incidents occurring at The Bear

Noises, apparitions, objects moving back and forward
Daisy’s ghost searching for the husband she adored

The mystery had been solved – or so it seemed at first
Till the toilets overflowed when the sewer blocked then burst

The plumber replaced every S-bend, pipe and drain
After that Daisy was never heard again

At The Bear they were forced to reluctantly admit
That the tale of Daisy’s ghost was just a pile of shit

© Copyright 2011 Ian Bland

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