Mr. C, Yoshimi,
lives in a house four doors from me,
invites my girlfriend for a cup of tea,
two hour tea ceremony worries me.
I find my thoughts about Yoshimi, become unkind,
good things about him are hard to find,
his eyes and elbows and hands I'll bind,
and poke him in the eye, with a poker, 'til he's blind.
I say, tell me what you did with my girlfriend you twat,
he said she only came round to help me decorate the flat,
and she stayed awhile because she was playing with my cat,
please don't hit me with that cricket, bat.
And now I've got a blind, dead Jap on my hands,
I'm Chinese, he mumbles, I thought you'd understand,
but I suppose the differences between us ain't all that grand,
and with that he fainted, this was worse than I'd planned.
Now there's a copper at the door looking for Mr. C,
there's blood on my hands and the officer ain't pleased,
he says Yoshimi's Mum's flown in from Nagasaki,
I said, hang on, I thought he said he was Chinese.
A simple misunderstanding, and now I'm locked away,
not to see my girlfriend, or the light of day,
she says the cat enjoys having her round to play,
but Mr. C doesn't, 'cos it turns out that he's gay.
- Yorkshire Soul.
This one needs to be read out loud in a quick fire Scroobius Pip style of delivery, it burst into my head yesterday afternoon as we prepped the evening meal. I'm following the writer's maxim of always having a notepad handy to write ideas dow as they occur, which I have to do as ten minutes after a poem has appeared, if I havn't written it down, it has become threads of smoke and wisps of meaning.