I went down to this Poet's Fest for breakfast yes'dy morn.
Got there early as I do and I took me girl along.
She told me that I had to find a proper place to sit
So I scouted 'round the area where the barby thing was lit.
We found two seats and watched this crowd. Never been to one before.
And I'll tell what with honesty, it's a funny crowd they draw.
They've got this bloke there cookin' and his head is shaved as well
Looking very serious about it all, 'wonder what he's got to tell.
He's juggling bacon on the plate and sizzling snags to boot
And there's women selling tickets and a long haired blondie coot.
We eat a bit and chew the fat with the bloke who sits next door
He's tall and lean and wirey with a hat made out of straw.
He's carryin' a notebook and a folder full of stuff.
He scoffs a plate of toast and eggs and declares he's had enough.
I wonder if he wants to sprout from poetry in his soul
If it got down deep inside of him it'd need a bloody mole.
Then this Blondie bloke, he fronts up with some speakin' aparatus
And tells the crowd their time has come to tell jokes and amuse us.
He asks this feller with a beard to go and jump up first
And he does, forgets his lines, then remembers with a burst.
He carries on a bit, then the Blondie tells a yarn, in poetry and rhyme,
'Bout Woolies shopping trolleys and how they took off once in time.
We laughed a bit at that, you know, and chuckled at their plight
Cos the trolleys don't do that for real. They're chained up over night.
This Blondie bloke, he knows 'em all, even ones from down the back
And he calls this good lookin' chick in black up from the pack.
She's the funniest bird you've ever seen, she can talk and she can act
And she gives this dose of drama, like on the stage, it's all intact.
There was kids and skinny geysers who lived in lands afar
Talkin' 'bout the mud New Zealand has that bubbles up like tar.
Some of the stories they was funny and some of them was sad
And me throat just knotted up a bit but I stopped from lookin' bad.
This Blondie bloke he runs the show and he goes on without blinkin'.
We all jump up and with a poem or story just to tell what we are thinkin'.
I liked the lady with the Pommy touch who told poems in Irish lingo
I only heard half of what she said but we laughed and called it Bingo!
Those corn pancakes that he cooked down on the barbeque
Was just about exhausted and the snags were all gone too
So we wrapped it up and said our dues and wished everybody well
Next time we meet like this my friend, I'll have a poem to tell.
Tom Hampstead