A Poem For a Devonian Poetry Evening.
East Cornwall is East Cornwall
and West Devon is West Devon
and never the Twain shall meet,
apart from along the length of the Tamar;
and that bit up near Bude
(which isn’t technically East Cornwall);
but, you know where I mean,
that bit where the road takes you through about a mile of Devon:
take my word, when I say
that my cry of: ‘I was only going to the garden centre!’ is often heard
whenever we choose to go that way.
As for Plymouth…
well, it is its own special place,
kingdom, province, municipality,
and in all probability
is twinned with an enclave
of Plymovians in Inner Mongolia or Outer Space.
Plympton, on the other hand,
Is a different kettle of fish;
the people there are very nice
they have happy, smiling faces,
freely give concise advice
donate generously to charity,
take many courses on crochet and pottery;
and they are especially keen
on supporting local poetry.
In fact, I have heard, that once
they even applauded a visitor from Cornwall at their poetry recital
when his poem was done.