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_Pantoumery This was written following the discovery of the Pantoum style of poetry and our feeble attempts to apply to our own works. _{This Pantoum stuff be ever so ‘ard Writing it down and shaggin’ along Getting it right when we be jarred Praying aloud it don’t go wrong} _{Writing it down and shaggin’ along Hoping, hoping nothing is missed Praying aloud it don’t go wrong But ever so, ever so, ever so pissed} _{Hoping, hoping nothing is missed One is the same, two are for free But ever so, ever so, ever so pissed The whole damned thing getting to me} _{One is the same, two are for free Just one to go to be a bard The whole damned thing getting to me This Pantoum stuff be ever so ‘ard} _{© 2003 The Five Litre Poets Society}

		Terror in the Tap Room This was written immediately following a chance encounter in the Tap Room of the New York Athletic Club with Donald Rumsfeld, US Secretary of State for War and arch hawk in the invasion of Iraq. The date was 12^th September 2003 and the assumption was that he was there in connection with “9/11”. However it turned out that he was there for a dinner to honour distinguished wrestlers of the NYAC who were to be inducted into the Hall of Fame. Rummy had been a wrestler in his college days! Holed up in NYAC Rumsfeld in the Tap Room bar In this country of the free Iraq, Iraq it seems so far Rumsfeld in the Tap Room bar Wrestling with his conscience? Iraq, Iraq it seems so far Such a thought would be such nonsense Wrestling with his conscience? Questioning his dangerous game? Such a thought would be such nonsense He’s here to join the Hall of Fame Questioning his dangerous game? No, that is not to be He’s here to join the Hall of Fame Holed up in NYAC © 2003 The Five Litre Poets Society

			Goodbye, Wrecker Bill At the 2003 Cape Cod gathering of the Five Litre Poets Society it was agreed after some protracted and increasingly acrimonious discussion that in the public eye the Wrecker Bill epics were in danger becoming more important than the Society itself. The decision was taken amidst the general brawling and mayhem that Bill should be written out and shown up for what he really was – an immoral opportunistic antihero who far from being lionised by a whole generation should be despised and then forgotten. But like Sherlock Holmes’ ‘final’ confrontation with Professor Moriaty there should be some chance of a later return, just in case the Society should run into hard times. It was agreed that Wrecker Bill should be consigned by Committee, with all aspects of the Cape Cod poetry scene being included, hence the Helmet Crab, the seals and the varying poetic styles. Turner was added in recognition of the then current exhibition of his seascapes. As a final tribute to the influence of Wrecker Bill on the development of the Society, the customary allocation of grog was doubled to ten litres. Goodbye, Bill, you stood us well you old villain. I’ve had my fill, thought Wrecker Bill Of the raw red meat of life I’ve lured the ships with my siren lights And shown no mercy to those poor souls Consigned in terror to Davey Jones I’ve filled my locker without regret But now ‘tis me the rocks do beckon To face my Maker’s cold eyed reckon Dark thoughts overcome me I am now but a Helmet Crab Crawling without hope to nowhere To be flipped by the predatory gull My insides torn asunder My earthly shell left to rot On life’s dismal shore I’ve been a bad sea dog, you all know that of course And there ain’t no time to show remorse But wait, there is a brighter side Which you shall hear my hearties So you won’t talk so ill of dear old Bill When at your cocktail parties I’ve had my whores and downed the drawers Of many a virtuous lady I’ve widowed her as she asked for more While groaning into a shameless whore And I’ve had many a beer and an occasional queer As my tastes grew more to the bestial For the lustful caress of a fallen young lass Is but nothing to me like the feel of a seal. Their pitiful eyes and feminine sighs My gift from Old Neptune, my heavenly prize The nearest I’ve been to Cupid’s sweet dream But as soon as the moment has passed (For these things, they never do last) I slit her old throat and return to my boat For a noggin or two and a kip. Much has been written of me as a man of the sea And to some I’m a hero of sorts I’ve adorned the front page and appeared on the stage And been in a seascape by Turner But it’s fair turned my head it’s increasingly said And taken my mind from my wrecking I’ve sold my old whores and opened new doors Into the meaning of life I’ve exchanged my old hook for the quill and the book And would you believe it, my former old hearty I’m now fully a part of the gay literati! So it’s farewell from me to you and the sea. Thanks to hormones and pills and surgical skills It’s goodbye Wrecker Bill and meet Randy Jill As I’m flashing my tits at the Ritz A girl with a story to sell. . © 2003 The Five Litre Poets Society

	Leave Home! This was written and first performed at the 2003 Cheltenham Festival of Literature. The subject had been set by the Poet in Residence and 26 hours allowed for composition. As this period coincided with the England v. South Africa World Cup rugby match with its associated revelry and mayhem the Five Litre poet had only a window of two hours to prepare his opus. Despite this, the reception by fellow poets and groupies fell far short of being given the bird. Living with mum, living with dad In Cheltenham Spa, rah, rah, rah Life is funny, life is mad Drinking lager in the bar, bar, bar Free, white and twenty one No GCSEs, no degree Having lots and lots of fun Foot loose and fancy free Filling shelves all day long My own little room back at home Thinking of girls as the week rolls on Weekend coming, I won’t be alone! Free, white and thirty three Hurt my back, ha, ha, ha So more work for little me In Cheltenham Spa, hurrah, hurrah Free, white and forty five Ten years now on the dole Just enough to keep me alive But mum and dad are getting old Free, white and nearly fifty Mum is dying, dad is gaga Soon no need to be so thrifty There must still be girls in Cheltenham Spa! Free, white and sixty three Sole inheritance I have won The house is mine and mortgage free That’s the prize for an only son Remember the words of my old mum When I was free, white and twenty one “Leave home and have a life, my son No other chance when this one’s done” Free, white and nearly done No one to love me, no one to love Mum and dad already gone To their other home, the one above On my lonely tombstone shall be read “He heeded the words of his dear old ma And left his home, but he was dead Under the ground of Cheltenham Spa” © 2003 The Five Litre Poets Society

			Under the Clock This was written some eighteen years after the actual event. At Charing Cross, under the clock Beneath my arm the NME Looking towards the oncoming flock I awaited the girl who was for me. Beneath my arm the NME To make me seem not quite so old I awaited the girl who was for me At that time I was ever so bold To make me seem not quite so old The NME was a cunning device At that time I was ever so bold I had to win whatever the price The NME was a cunning device My hair was slick, my tie was bright I had to win whatever the price My shoes were suede, my suit was white My hair was slick, my tie was bright What would she think, me clad like that? My shoes were suede, my suit was white All in all a bit of a prat What would she think, me clad like that Like a conman stood in the dock All in all a bit of a prat At Charing Cross, under the clock. © 2003 The Five Litre Poets Society