A few year’s back I did a workshop with performance poet Luke Wright. He asked us to draw on our histories and find something to write about that had an authentic voice.
We were to use three matching rhymes, eight syllables for every line and a repeated refrain for the final line of each verse.
I journeyed back to my youth going out to Blackpool nightclubs…
Your name’s not down, you can’t come in
The night descends and bouncers prowl
With lips that curl and thoughts that growl
You’ll lay it all on with a trowel
Your name’s not down, you can’t come in
At Branigans looms Bouncer Bob
By day, bedraggled TV slob
Drinks in the power of his job
Your name’s not down, you can’t come in
The pubs spew punters onto streets
The stags and hens zigzag the beat
All searching for their next retreat
Your name’s not down, you can’t come in
And on the door of Branigans
A rancid queue of permatans
And Bob feels power in his hands
Your name’s not down, you can’t come in
Johnny sports his football shirt
Our Rita’s hitchin up her skirt
Although by day, she’s known as Burt
Your name’s not down, you can’t come in
It’s Bob’s world now, his word is law
Your face don’t fit, he’ll slam the door
Soon Johnny’s face is on the floor
Your name’s not down, you can’t come in
Cos here’s no place for football kits
Your better off flashing your tits
And – if you’re Burt – not other bits
Your name’s not down, you can’t come in
Bob doesn’t like the look of you
Or you’re not wearing the right shoes
A hen snogs Bob – ‘Cheers love, you’re through’
Your name’s not down, you can’t come in
