Friday, 16 November 2012

The Counter Revolution

Firstly apologies to those of you expecting a post on Christmas Ghost Stories. I have been busy this week adapting A Christmas Carol Revisited for a Concert Reading in Manhattan on December 19th. If you have ever been involved in a Christmas production of any sort you know how they can test the Good Will To All Men aspect of the festive season to the limits.

My good friend, poet and author Glyn Scott has however come to my aid(I think) although his contribution does come with a health warning . . .

Great poets and authors have always pushed the boundaries of what may be considered good taste.
The following poet is no exception. Many of you may find his poem morally offensive and therefore I would like to make the following observations:
1. 'Glyn Scott' is NOT my pen name. He is much older and uglier than me. Pictorial evidence is provided below.
2. No penises were harmed or compromised in the making of this poem.
3. If you are easily offended (or female) please DO NOT READ BEYOND THIS POINT.
4. No money exchanged hands in the promotion of this poem (yet).

PICTORIAL EVIDENCE in support of my previous observations.





The Counter Revolution.

We march like ancient warriors
along the rugged track,
To another field of battle
There is no looking back.

Our hearts are strong and wilful
Our hopes continue on
We are the veterans’ rugby team
Whose muscles have all gone.

The game begins and in no time,
we are praying for a rest
No violent scrums we settle in
like hens upon a nest.

The referee has abandoned hope
of controlling this debacle,
Our collective aim is to a man
avoid having to tackle.

Spectators few in number
There for memories sake
Stand and issue platitudes
Like mourners at a wake.

Our wives abandon us to chance
Of ever coming back
They see the pain that has no gain
and give us constant flack.

They say we men are obsolete
Mars usurped by Venus
Our worth is measured only
by the short length of our penis.

They demean us daily
saying boys they will be boys,
then replace us in the marital sack
with a range of sexual toys.

Yet we will fight on valiantly
sod our feminine side
We owe it to our brave young sons
To avoid the manhood slide.

So hardy veterans every where
Play on, there’s no game finer.
Against the ever growing threat
The march of the vagina.

So get up off your knees, man
Support your local club.
If she says be home by six
her demanding you must snub.

Give her both barrels, my son
Reduce her to a pallor
and you and I will one day share
a brew in old Valhalla

Glyn Scott
The Ruptured Bard.

P.S. I f by some remote chance some of you enjoyed this poem let me know and I'll buy Glyn a pint next Monday when we meet for lunch.
If, as I strongly suspect, you find the tone of this poem morally reprehensible please forward me your comments on a blank £20 note and I will ensure the poet is made aware of how much he has offended your sensibilties.
I can however personally vouch for the fact that he was severely ruptured while researching this poem. Great poets must be prepared to suffer for their art.

I will take a look at Ghost Stories and feature as many authors as I can.

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