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Badger Poetry

Alan Zimbabwe
John Dillinger
Others
Clarence Peabody
Summer Fauve
Nick Green

I saw her in the sixth-form every day, she'd never even look my way...
Never had no words to say that would'nt make her sneer,
In leggings and a leather painted,
 I longed that we could grow acquainted,
 But if She'd ever smiled Iwould have fainted,
So I cried into my beer.

She was raven black and razor fast,
My English work she far out classed,
All I drew were morbid laughs
When I sought to impress,
A nymph of non-conformity,
Her brain and curves called out to me,
Saying peace and love and anarchy...
But don't you fucking mess.

I knew that I could only woo this girl if I seemed like her too,
And so that's what I chose to do, one weekend I turned punk,
I'm sure it took her by surprise, I do recall her eyebrows rise,
Perhaps she was just horrified, at how low I had sunk.

At the punk club on a saturday night,
I'd watch the girls and skinheads fight,
And still try casually as I might,
She'd never look my way...
Once her mates all told me that,
She needed a bloke who'd not leave her flat,
And I seemed just the gormless twat,
But I could'nt think what to say...

Every week till the club closed down,
Then we all moved over town,
Still I drew no more than frowns,
From the punk girl I adored,
She went away to study art,
By then I'd healed my broken heart,
And made a much more promising start
With goals easier scored.

And now those years have long since gone
How come I still carry on?
I'm still punk and she's the mom?
A habit I can' t  shake...
The one's that get away are best,
You keep's them close, inside your chest,
I'm sure she still keeps some detest,
Well we're all fakes anyway...