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o Fat Alice

o Drop-in Centre

o Survivor Guilt

o Prime Ministerís Question Time

o Lessons from Viet Nam

o The Airborne Museum, Hartenstein, March 2023

o Early Morning Walk

o Mitherings

o Communication ii

o Sock Drawer Poets

o Diplomatic Dancing

o Old Bill And Me

o Debits And Credits

o Organic Farming

o Whiskey The Cat

o Fettling The Garden

o Instantaneous

o Those Washday Dreams

o In Povertyís Hell

o By Steam Train

o Road Hog Blues

o Interference

o Yorkshire Red

o This New New Year

o Priory Woods 2022

o Sovereignty

o Tanks

o Two Thousand And Twenty Two

o Ginger Whinger

o Documentary

o Turkeys

o Bullies

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I really didn't like him
But what the heck
He was a fellow Yorkie
And he had a lot of neck
He played the piano by ear
And that's just how it sounded
You couldn't say his technique
Made notes in any way rounded

He churned out the favourites
Notes here there and everywhere
But in a Friday night squaddie mess
Who was in a state to care
As loud voices belted out
The old favourite songs
All comradely joined
In Buddy's sing along
Just keep buying him a drink
He may not get many notes right
But in his own peculiar style
He would play with verve all night
And he would beam at all and sundry
But I'm sure that in his head
He wasn't in that  mess
But another place instead
Maybe the Albert Hall
Not a Joanna under his hand
But his fingers gently caressed
Instead a concert baby grand
He was too big a character
For even army ways
And he just wasn't there
One particular day
Just an empty locker
Just a bare bed space
And the next day
Another was in his place

I saw him five years later
Both back in civvie street
Buddy dressed in a suit
Looking sharp and neat
He tried to borrow some money
In typical Buddy bent
And when I refused
He just turned and went
The last time I saw him
But I'm sure he's still around
Maybe tickling the ivories
In some shady part of town

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