Sipping Port With Bill
Posted: Mon Mar 11, 2013 12:50 pm
Following on from Irene’s lovely poem set in the surrounds of Boyup, it seems a good time to post this one about the get together after it was all over.
This is a fun poem written about the after Festival party by those of us who had stayed on to the end.
Bill is the president of the WA Poets and on the organising committee for Boyup Brook festival and a top bloke.
Despite what the poem suggests we all stayed reasonably sober and had a great evening - Terry
SIPPING PORT WITH BILL
The festival was over and the crowds had moved away,
as eerie silence settled where once music used to play.
The barbeque had ended; all performers left the scene,
but memories still lingered of how great the week had been.
The crack of old Bill’s stockwhip here, still echoes in my mind,
while stirring poems and Aussie yarns are not too far behind.
Although a mere onlooker there, I’d sensed the poets thrill,
performing to the large crowd, looking down from on the hill
And those of us who still remained went back with Meg and Bill,
to share a drink or two and chat; as poets always will.
Bills eyes were fairly sparking; there was mischief in his smile;
about to kick his heels up now and party for awhile.
Now I’d been warned that Bill, enjoyed a sip of port or two
and if I valued sanity, I really should shoot through.
The happy buzz of voices seemed to match the mood alright,
and soon the strains of music filtered through the balmy night.
Then through the swaying dancers, Bill came dodging folk and lights,
a bottle of port in one hand and he had me in his sights.
And glasses were soon filled up with the nectar of the grape
and after that first fatal sip, you know there’s no escape.
Meanwhile the party’s in full swing and Meg is dancing up a storm,
Old Buddy’s blaring from within and dancers start to swarm.
Somehow I find I’m with them - Bills got his camera out;
He’s gathering up intelligence, for future use no doubt.
Soon Irene has joined in the fun to prove she is a sport,
spurred on no doubt by others and a healthy drop of port.
And all the time Bill’s camera is filming all this fun,
he reckons he’ll be set for years before this night is done.
That wicked look behind his grin sends shivers down my spine,
I couldn’t help but wonder had I somehow crossed the line.
My thoughts are interrupted as a body hits the dirt,
but quickly bounces to its feet apparently unhurt.
We sit around there chatting and the hours just seem to fly,
the bottle must be leaking; it appears to be bone dry.
It’s time to hit the sack - of alcohol I’ve had my fill,
no doubt there’ll be a price to pay, for sipping port with Bill.
© T.E.Piggott
This is a fun poem written about the after Festival party by those of us who had stayed on to the end.
Bill is the president of the WA Poets and on the organising committee for Boyup Brook festival and a top bloke.
Despite what the poem suggests we all stayed reasonably sober and had a great evening - Terry
SIPPING PORT WITH BILL
The festival was over and the crowds had moved away,
as eerie silence settled where once music used to play.
The barbeque had ended; all performers left the scene,
but memories still lingered of how great the week had been.
The crack of old Bill’s stockwhip here, still echoes in my mind,
while stirring poems and Aussie yarns are not too far behind.
Although a mere onlooker there, I’d sensed the poets thrill,
performing to the large crowd, looking down from on the hill
And those of us who still remained went back with Meg and Bill,
to share a drink or two and chat; as poets always will.
Bills eyes were fairly sparking; there was mischief in his smile;
about to kick his heels up now and party for awhile.
Now I’d been warned that Bill, enjoyed a sip of port or two
and if I valued sanity, I really should shoot through.
The happy buzz of voices seemed to match the mood alright,
and soon the strains of music filtered through the balmy night.
Then through the swaying dancers, Bill came dodging folk and lights,
a bottle of port in one hand and he had me in his sights.
And glasses were soon filled up with the nectar of the grape
and after that first fatal sip, you know there’s no escape.
Meanwhile the party’s in full swing and Meg is dancing up a storm,
Old Buddy’s blaring from within and dancers start to swarm.
Somehow I find I’m with them - Bills got his camera out;
He’s gathering up intelligence, for future use no doubt.
Soon Irene has joined in the fun to prove she is a sport,
spurred on no doubt by others and a healthy drop of port.
And all the time Bill’s camera is filming all this fun,
he reckons he’ll be set for years before this night is done.
That wicked look behind his grin sends shivers down my spine,
I couldn’t help but wonder had I somehow crossed the line.
My thoughts are interrupted as a body hits the dirt,
but quickly bounces to its feet apparently unhurt.
We sit around there chatting and the hours just seem to fly,
the bottle must be leaking; it appears to be bone dry.
It’s time to hit the sack - of alcohol I’ve had my fill,
no doubt there’ll be a price to pay, for sipping port with Bill.
© T.E.Piggott
