The poet ascended the podium
About to deliver words of wisdom,
The doors were locked.
None could escape
This torrent of dire fate.
Some feigned ill
And some did faint,
But no mercy was forthcoming.
Although a sign of relief was heard
As the poet succumbed to a bout of coughing,
The door then opened for fresh air
Causing the poet to stop and glare
At the stampede fighting on the stair. By Ian Platt
Thornton Avenue, Heaton
Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.
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