[Just a dumb little poem from the workshop-day-thing that I did with SYW and Simon Armitage out on Pewel Hill a few months ago.]
Me and the team
up on the hill
the horde still in sight;
We’re ready for anything.
Myles, Josh, Tom, Mole and me:
stood out on the rocks
our poses heroic
(with the exception of Mole,
who clearly prefers the suggestive sort.)
We find ourselves armed
with nothing but our biros –
the pen is mightier than the sword,
though machine guns
might be more useful.
The zombie horde approaches,
anoraks rustling ominously in the wind.
There’s no way out:
army of the living dead on one side,
a dizzying drop on the other.
We bravely prepare for our fate
as the leader of the mob steps forward
and opens its ghastly mouth in a snarl…
“OI. YOU LOT. GET BACK HERE AND JOIN THE REST OF THE GROUP!”