A fine English poet, John Whitworth, has passed away. I don’t know enough superlatives, so here’s John’s “Morocco Bound.” John Passed in April, but here in mid-summer he’s been on my mind.
(The last line of the chorus rightly belongs to Bing Crosby in ‘The Road to Morocco’).
We’re weirdy bards, we’re beardy bards, fine words are what we deal in.
When poetry is on the cards and poems softly stealing,
We winch them in with yards and yards of true poetic feeling.
We’re horrible and hairy, but our principles are sound
And, like Webster’s Dictionary, we’re Morocco bound.
We strike a pose, we strike a match, we light a lyric light.
It’s like an itch you gotta scratch, you gotta get it right.
It’s like a train you gotta catch, you gotta catch tonight.
We might seem airy-fairy, but our feet are on the ground,
And, like Webster’s Dictionary, we’re Morocco bound.
Some bards are miserable as sin and some are happy hunks.
A few get rich as Rin Tin Tin but most stay poor as monks.
A few will die of heroin, a lot will live as drunks.
We’re seriously scary but we’re seminally sound
And, like Webster’s Dictionary, we’re Morocco bound.
Our Eastern star, our Shangri-La, it cancels out the curse,
It nominates the fat cigar and writes the winning verse,
It shows us where the good times are, for better or for worse.
We’ve bought a dromedary and we paid a thousand pound
And, like Webster’s dictionary, we’re Morocco bound.
At The Peacock's Perch 