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.