Safe to say I was bricking it
OCD or no OCD
I’d a battle on my hands
There was a page with my poems on
Poor lighting
And then there was me
Things started off fine
I might even go as far as to say sublime
A couple of drinks
To loosen the chord
Stop my mind from doing what it does best
Old man with guitar takes a seat onstage
Sings beautifully
Even if he leaves a fierce whiff of sage behind
Number eight on the list so I’d to sit for a bit
Look hard at where the other ‘poets’ stood
Choose my spot
Remember my lot
When my turn comes
Everything is good
Up there in front of all those people
With mounds of pride I am stood
Read my poem
Got the audience going
When suddenly horror strikes
I’ve to stop myself from getting barreled by an onslaught of spikes
My eyes start to go…
With that the entire flow
‘Til I’m making it up like the cheekiest pup
Do I continue on
Or exit stage left
Thank the heavens above my mother didn’t come
‘Cos she’d have left bereft
I got off stage
Gave my apology
My reading may have been brutal
But I’m afraid right now in large part
that’s me