Unlike this:

The Embarrassing Experience With The Parrot
At the Cotswold Wild Life Park,
In the merry month of May,
I paid the man the money,
And went in to spend the day,
Straightway to the Pets Corner,
I turned my eager feet,
To go and see the rabbits,
And give them something to eat.

As I approached the hutches,
I was alarmed to see,
A crowd of little yobbos,
‘Ollerin’ with glee,
I crept up close behind them
And weighed the scene up quick,
And saw them poke the rabbits
Poke them! . . with a stick!

‘Get off you little buggers!”
I shouted in their ear,
‘Don’t you poke them rabbits,
That’s not why they are here.”
I must have really scared them,
In seconds they were gone,
And feelin’ I had done some good,
I carried on along.

Till up beside the Parrots Cage,
I stood to view the scene,
They was lovely parrots,
Beautiful blue and green,
In and out the nestbox,
They was really having fun,
Squawking out and flying about,
All except for one.

One poor old puffed-up parrot,
Clung grimly to his perch,
And as the wind blew frontwards,
Backwards he would lurch,
One foot up in his feathers,
Abandoned by the rest,
He sat there, plainly dying,
His head upon his chest.

Well, I walked on down the pathway
And I stroked a nanny goat,
But the thought of parrots dyin’
Brought a lump into me throat,
I could no longer stand it,
And to the office I fled,
Politely I began: ‘Scuse me,
Your parrot’s nearly dead.”

So me and a curator,
In urgent leaps and bounds,
With a bottle of Parrot Cure,
Dashed across the grounds,
The dust flew up around us,
As we reached the Parrots Pen,
And the curator he turned to me
Saying ‘Which one is it then?”

You know what I am going to say,
He was not there at all,
At least, not where I left him,
No, he flit from wall to wall,
As brightly as a button,
Did he squawk and jump and leap,
The curator was very kind,
Saying, “I expect he was asleep.”

But I was humiliated,
As I stood before the wire,
The curator went back,
To put his feet up by the fire,
So I let the parrot settle,
And after a short search,
I found the stick the yobbos had,
And poked him off his perch

Pam Ayres…not very Rock ‘n’ Roll.

One name pops up, The Beasley St. Bard
John Cooper Clarke:
“BEASLEY STREET”

FAR FROM CRAZY PAVEMENTS
…THE TASTE OF SILVER SPOONS
A CLINICAL ARRANGEMENT
…ON A DIRTY AFTERNOON
WHERE THE FECAL GERMS OF MR. FREUD
…ARE RENDERED OBSOLETE
THE LEGAL TERM IS NULL AND VOID
IN THE CASE OF… BEASLEY STREET

IN THE CHEAP SEATS WHERE MURDER BREEDS
SOMEBODY IS OUT OF BREATH
SLEEP IS A LUXURY THEY DON’T NEED
…A SNEAK PREVIEW OF DEATH
BELLADONNA IS YOUR FLOWER
MANSLAUGHTER YOUR MEAT
SPEND A YEAR IN A COUPLE OF HOURS
ON THE EDGE OF BEASLEY STREET

WHERE THE ACTION ISN’T
THAT’S WHERE IT IS
STATE YOUR POSITION
VACANCIES EXIST
IN AN X-CERTIFICATE EXERCISE
EX-SERVICEMEN EXCRETE
KEITH JOSEPH SMILES AND A BABY DIES
IN A BOX ON BEASLEY STREET

FROM THE BOARDING HOUSES AND THE BEDSITS FULL OF
…ACCIDENTS AND FLEAS
SOMEBODY GETS IT
WHERE THE MISSING PERSONS FREEZE
WEARING DEAD MEN’S OVERCOATS
YOU CAN’T SEE THEIR FEET
A RIFF JOINT SHUTS – OPENS UP
RIGHT DOWN ON BEASLEY STREET

CARS COLLIDE, COLOURS CLASH
DISASTER MOVIE STUFF
FOR A MAN WITH THE FU MANCHU MOUSTACHE
REVENGE IS NOT ENOUGH
THERE’S A DEAD CANARY ON A SWIVEL SEAT
THERE’S A RAINBOW IN THE ROAD
MEANWHILE ON BEASLEY STREET
SILENCE IS THE CODE

HOT BENEATH THE COLLAR
…AN INSPECTOR CALLS
WHERE THE PERISHING STINK OF SQUALOR
…IMPREGNATES THE WALLS
THE RATS HAVE ALL GOT RICKETS
THEY SPIT THROUGH BROKEN TEETH
THE NAME OF THE GAME IS NOT CRICKET
CAUGHT OUT ON …BEASLEY STREET

THE HIPSTER AND HIS HIRED HAT
DRIVE A BORROWED CAR
YELLOW SOCKS AND A PINK CREVAT
NOTHING LA-DI-DAH
O-A-P
MOTHER-TO-BE
WATCH THE THREE-PIECE SUITE
WHEN SHITSTOPPER DRAINS
AND CROCODILE SKIS
ARE SEEN ON …BEASLEY STREET

THE KINGDOM OF THE BLIND
…A ONE-EYED MAN IS KING
BEAUTY PROBLEMS ARE REDEFINED
…THE DOORBELLS DO NOT RING
A LIGHT BULB BURST LIKE A BLISTER
THE ONLY FORM OF HEAT
WHERE A FELLOW SELLS HIS SISTER
…DOWN THE RIVER ON BEASLEY STREET

THE BOYS ARE ON THE WAGON
THE GIRLS ARE ON THE SHELF
THEIR COMMON PROBLEM IS
…THAT THEY’RE NOT SOMEONE ELSE
THE DIRT BLOWS OUT
THE DUST BLOWS IN
YOU CAN’T KEEP IT NEAT
IT’S A FULLY FURNISHED DUSTBIN
…SIXTEEN BEASLEY STREET

VINCE THE AGEING SAVAGE
BETRAYS NO KIND OF LIFE
…BUT THE SMELL OF YESTERDAY’S CABBAGE
AND THE GHOST OF LAST YEAR’S WIFE
THROUGH A CONSTANT HAZE
OF DEODORANT SPRAYS
HE SAYS …RETREAT
ALSATIANS DOG THE DIRTY DAYS
DOWN THE MIDDLE OF BEASLEY STREET

PEOPLE TURN TO POISON
QUICK AS LAGER TURNS TO PISS
SWEETHEARTS ARE PHYSICALLY SICK
EVERY TIME THEY KISS
IT’S A SOCIOLOGIST’S PARADISE
EACH DAY REPEATS
UNEASY, CHEASY, GREASY, QUEASY
…BEASTLY, BEASLEY STREET

EYES DEAD AS VICIOUS FISH
LOOK AROUND FOR LAUGHS
IF I COULD HAVE JUST ONE WISH
I WOULD BE A PHOTOGRAPH
ON A PERMANENT MONDAY MORNING
GET LOST OR FALL ASLEEP
WHEN THE YELLOW CATS ARE YAWNING
AROUND THE BACK OF BEASLEY STREET

Poetry does have a place on the ‘Rock’ stage, so long as its on
a level with this.

Could be my kind of music, but my text to speech program has sphinctred up. Mike, please read the written, typing stuff and let me know if they make sense. I’ll plug my hearing aid into the USB port but please don’t shout. I’m only a bass player 🙄

Funnelly nuff (and I don’t broadcast this) we did use a poet in my previous band’s live show. Worked well. What we didn’t do was come up with an utterly crap moniker like Poetry Band which, as the name implies, has been formed by total drivelheads.

Still, I’m auditioning for a new “project” called Crayon Band. As you know, many musicians don’t even draw; still less colour in. But Crayon Band will be different. We’re going to combine a thrilling mix of playing with Play-Doh and creativity with Crayola.

Anybody wishing to contact me about this exciting project will find me buried deep, deep, up my own backside.