MIGs
I was sitting in the pub last Thursday night
And there were these two young men downing double vodkas.
They said their girl friends were cooking a meal
And they had to get back quick.
(One lad is to be married in Las Vegas in a week or two.)
I told them they should be drinking whisky and Drambuie.
Just ordinary whisky. The coarseness of whisky
(apart from malt) is taken away by the sharpness
of Drambuie and the combination in a single glass
leaves you legless after two or three and is beautiful.
That's what finished me with Susan.
In Glasgow we called them MIGs thirty years ago
And I think Americans call them a Rusty Nail.
The youngest of the lads came across to me
And said aren't you the poet?'. `Can you tell
me about the poem of the haggis.' So I explained
about the piper and the silver dish and recited
`Great chieftain of the pudding race.' Explained
it was Rabbie Burns and they could find it on
my Website. And I said I don't write poems
no more. I used to be a poet.
I saw him this Sunday afternoon drinking orange
with Little Joe, the plasterer, who is waiting
for his first illegitimate grandchild to arrive.
Suffering.
I never think of myself as a poet. It is
quite a shock to be approached. I never get
into magazines or suchlike. I only have
half-a-dozen books long ago. Perhaps I
should write a poem.
And the Lynx Website is at
http://www.bath.ac.uk/~exxdgdc/lynx.html
where there are three megabytes of poetic material with a set
of South West England poets and innumerable articles on poetry.
Enjoy.
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