a pastiche of sorts (poem type thingie)
wrote this in response to a friend's pastiche (his in the style of Charles Bukowski). This is supposed to be in the manner of Dylan Thomas, but some say it's more like Kerouac.....
Now what of ol' Billy, my boy, now what, now what
of brobdignag Billy?
Oh yes! And yes! Oh yes yes!, Billy
was a lad, my boy, my boy; now if ever
there were a lad, 'twas Billy: drinking down the good bitter
he and I sailed through Swansea, dreaming
in our soggy suited swaggers, testing to tempt
the torch-hot titties of the lovely ladies
promenading like, - oh blessed be! Oh blessed, blessed
memory! - ahh, like merry sylvan maidens
all hopped up in their heavy winter
coats for a hug and a song and a dance!
Those maidens took to him, he took, he took
one after a pretty-posing other, another, another
he took like a satyr swiving at favourite homey
drinking hole, he swived at the cunny like he'd've
drunk from the old milk jug - glug! glug! glug! -
in simple Arkansas home.
So he wiped at his mouth
with his shirtsleeve, he hitched up his trousers
all maiden-messed with the fetch of fetching ladies
who were sitting about our digs, their dugs out,
sighing and simple to look at, and Billy, oh Billy!,
Billy did pull out his saxophone to give us a tune.
Sat there in his undershirt and his love laiden
trousers, he plied the ladies, those lovely dames
of Cymru, of the song's own land, you land of song,
and sprout from the reed to the lip of the gold
and gaping horn swooned us a ditty both dirty
and high and low and in-between.
Blighted begger boys
looked in to see the sound erupting, eclipsing
the night, the gaslight, the bar room hollers,
the moans in the squalor, and saw Billy - oh Billy-
giving tuneful at the horn was he that early early
morning when we were always young, having sipped
and drunk and supped and sunk and rose and revelled
round to the hour and the hour again, the ladies and I
cappered and cavelled to the tune of tunes of Billy,
Billy of plain and pretty Arkansas home!
When we woke, when the sleep broke, when
morning took tally and tagged all of us, ladies and I,
in its sunny, dewy and dipping, we woke to find Billy
gone. Dear Billy, dear Billy, old lad, old lad, swoon
us again again-upon-a-time! Meanwhile I'll munch
away the morn upon the boozy and blossoming breast
of a young lusty lady from care-free Cardiff...
Now what of ol' Billy, my boy, now what, now what
of brobdignag Billy?
Oh yes! And yes! Oh yes yes!, Billy
was a lad, my boy, my boy; now if ever
there were a lad, 'twas Billy: drinking down the good bitter
he and I sailed through Swansea, dreaming
in our soggy suited swaggers, testing to tempt
the torch-hot titties of the lovely ladies
promenading like, - oh blessed be! Oh blessed, blessed
memory! - ahh, like merry sylvan maidens
all hopped up in their heavy winter
coats for a hug and a song and a dance!
Those maidens took to him, he took, he took
one after a pretty-posing other, another, another
he took like a satyr swiving at favourite homey
drinking hole, he swived at the cunny like he'd've
drunk from the old milk jug - glug! glug! glug! -
in simple Arkansas home.
So he wiped at his mouth
with his shirtsleeve, he hitched up his trousers
all maiden-messed with the fetch of fetching ladies
who were sitting about our digs, their dugs out,
sighing and simple to look at, and Billy, oh Billy!,
Billy did pull out his saxophone to give us a tune.
Sat there in his undershirt and his love laiden
trousers, he plied the ladies, those lovely dames
of Cymru, of the song's own land, you land of song,
and sprout from the reed to the lip of the gold
and gaping horn swooned us a ditty both dirty
and high and low and in-between.
Blighted begger boys
looked in to see the sound erupting, eclipsing
the night, the gaslight, the bar room hollers,
the moans in the squalor, and saw Billy - oh Billy-
giving tuneful at the horn was he that early early
morning when we were always young, having sipped
and drunk and supped and sunk and rose and revelled
round to the hour and the hour again, the ladies and I
cappered and cavelled to the tune of tunes of Billy,
Billy of plain and pretty Arkansas home!
When we woke, when the sleep broke, when
morning took tally and tagged all of us, ladies and I,
in its sunny, dewy and dipping, we woke to find Billy
gone. Dear Billy, dear Billy, old lad, old lad, swoon
us again again-upon-a-time! Meanwhile I'll munch
away the morn upon the boozy and blossoming breast
of a young lusty lady from care-free Cardiff...