I've participated in bar fights in the White Horse Tavern.
Dingy place really. Dylan Thomas
picked a bad way to go, a bad way to phrase and
a bad table. The one in the back corner. Few
windows in the WH but enough to draw out even
the most morose to their light, on a cloudy
day. Legend has it his ghost resides there yet,
I suspect the only leavings of his corporeal
being are the sodden words of his poetry. His
ghost is an empty shot glass. Yo, Poe some mo'.

I've participated in bar fights in the White Horse Tavern.
Dingy place really. Dylan Thomas
picked a bad way to go, a bad way to phrase and
a bad table. The one in the back corner. Few
windows in the WHT but enough to draw out even
the most morose to their light, on a cloudy
day. Legend has it his ghost resides there yet,
I suspect the only leavings of his corporeal
being are the sodden words of his poetry. His
ghost is an empty shot glass. Yo, Poe some mo'.

Whoops.

having scribed all my days at wits end
and never weary of my solemn oaths
for not much time was wasted learning
that from which wealth sheltered grows
appreciation for that which defies modernity
and magicked in the idle minds of dowagers
some love, some insight born of interpretation
some wiley verse or lucky alliteration
'twas not my inheritance my darkened visage
bore no elevation but natural survival's science
i collected no coins but protected my loins
unaffected, unjoined by finer fellows
but buffeted by hot air'd boffins bellows
barn born, no wise men to my cradle came
and unadorned no noble spoke nor knew my name.

Having scribed all my days at wit's end
I never wearied of my solemn oaths,
For my time was not wasted learning
That from which wealth-sheltered shies.
Of appreciation for all modernity defies ,
Thrice magicked in the minds of dowagers,
some love or insight was of my interpretation born.
These not my inheritance. My darkened visage
Bore no elevation, but that which brute survival sang.
Unaffected, unjoined by finer fellows,
And buffeted by hot air'd boffins' bellows,
I collected no coins, but my loins protected.
Barn born, no wise men to my cradle came,
No noble spoke, nor pale assassin knew, my name.

I sat under the tables there at the White Horse Tavern as a young boy or 5 years or so listening to Dylan Thomas. He would stand on top of the tables while my parents and all of their Beat friends sat around drinking and listening to his oratory.

Too young then to really know, but old enough now to remember fondly.
David Godden