It seemed only right to pen a tribute to London, one of my favorite places. I’ve recently been dealing with the revelation that I miss that wonderful place, and thought I should dig out a little something I wrote on her behalf. It’s three years old, but still applies.
Click here to read this to the right music.
London-town by Charlie Pratt
Ah, ‘allo there, cheerio, and cheers
With a bellyful of pie and the of darkest beers
The place reeks of smoke, of stories, of laughs,
Innumerable quid and government gaffes
The snake in the ground carries us true through
From Kensington to Tottenham, to Chelsea and Bakerloo
With whoosh and rush and my Times so dear
The acrid electric yields one Anglo-tear
A want for staying, a stay my wanting
No further my American-ness I’m flaunting
For this be true, from cotton to tweed,
My heart for thee has begun to bleed.
That’s my stop—right here—hurry up, get out
Shoulder to calf, I’m stuck—hey mate—what’s my bloody route?
Everything seems clean, yet cold, yet alone
And then my heart warms: It’s a red-booth telephone!
The mail royal, the water sparkling, there are buses-double
While history whispers it’s long-versed tune, it bursts a patriot’s bubble
A fauxhawk here, a long scarf there,
A German, an Asian, a Parisian, mon frere
The sands in the glass keep right on down-falling
Whilst the brevity of my journey I find increasingly appalling
Keep it coming, good keep! Pull hard on your tap!
And please, oh please, would you just please Mind The Gap.
November 2nd, 2009 at 5:20 pm
i’m reminded of one of my solo adventures around london on one of my visits. fish n’ chips at a pub w/a tasty pint. then off to st. martin-in-the-fields to get a brass rubbing. the rest of the afternoon was spent wandering around the national gallery (well…sitting and gawking at a few of the pieces). walked out of the museum to the glorious evening sunshine just after a torrential downpour over trafalgar square. love london!
November 3rd, 2009 at 8:33 am
I remember…
owning Stratford (http://www.stratford-upon-avon.co.uk/) in about a week,
knowing all the RSC “players” and drinking with them (shyly) at The Dirty Duck,
running by the river,
getting stranded in Victoria Station,
deciding to jaunt to Dover (where everyone asked “why are YOU in Dover?” and me responding, “the white cliffs?”),
learning what it meant to drink beer,
to drink a pint,
to drink until I skipped out on a showing of The Lion King,
lunching in the Tate,
sitting raw-hide at The Globe,
taking in Oxford and thinking I could go here!,
wanting to wear everything I saw,
know all the music I heard,
speak with all the accent my English heritage would allow,
and write with all the bravado of what I read every day–on cards, on signs, in plays, in books so old it didn’t matter whether the writing was good.
Yes, I remember it well.