A Sonnet History of John Whitworth
Puir wee John was skelpit by the toughs
at James Gillespie’s Boys, the Royal High,
fer talkin posh. ‘Sheepshagger’ was the cry.
‘Shitface’. ‘Ye’re Unglish, an no one o us!’
Indeed not. Hatch End, Pinner, Metroland
bred every bone that John still had a spark in.
Add Ovaltine, a hug from uncle Larkin,
two jiggers of Cope, Betjeman’s old brass band
et voilĂ ! Birth of a cockney sort of flyting,
stripping the hubs off of poets in their prime.
The south strikes back, in artful-dodger writing!
Never mind the egotistical sublime.
Never heed the brag of your local hitman.
Look out for the old one-two of the Johnny Whit man!
Page(s) 24
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