Our FT's new Poem of the Month for her folk group 8>)
The verses are inspired by the short song performed before one of the dances, as shown in italics below :>)

Devil's Deeds

Some say the devil's dead, the devil's dead, the devil's dead;
some say the devil's dead and buried in Cold Harbour.

Others say he's rose again, others say he's rose again;
others say he's rose again, apprenticed to a barber.

* * *
SCENE: Inside an old inn.

Villagers are seated at tables, talking and laughing. JACK the middle-aged keeper serves behind the bar (right of stage) and his daughter BESS collects glasses and chats with the customers. There are subdued sounds of a storm outside and often rain is blown against the inn's windows (back of stage). The old inn door (also back of stage) bursts open to admit ARTHUR, a well-bearded fisherman, and the sound of the wind howling. ARTHUR struggles to close the door, then removes his sodden overcoat and hangs it on a stand just inside the door, before walking slowly to the bar, greeting people he recognises (including BILL) as he passes the tables.

ARTHUR:  A foul night, Jack.
JACK:                                             Aye, Art, 'tis filth.
ARTHUR:                                                                        The Devil's work, I'd say.
                       They just brought in a boat, she hit the rocks on Beezel's Bay.
JACK:          Not one of ours?
ARTHUR:                                      Nay, one I never saw, called Summer Breeze.
JACK:          She don't sound sturdy for a storm. A pint?
ARTHUR:                                                                                          Aye, if y'please.
                        I heard young Ned, the lifeguard, say, no bodies was on board,
                        I'd wager they're Cold Harbour way, more souls for Satan's hoard.
JACK:          Aye, some folks say, the Devil’s dead and buried deep down there.
ARTHUR: 'Tis true.
JACK:                            But if he's dead, then how's he workin' rain and air?
ARTHUR:  He's hauntin' Jack, his spirit's with us, though he sleeps below.
                        Ah, evenin' Bill.
BILL:                                           Hello there, Art. One more, Jack, 'fore I go.
JACK:          So what’s your thinkin’, Bill, this storm, the Devil haunts the sea?
BILL:           He haunts? You think the Devil's dead?
JACK:                                                                                          'Tis Art says that, not me.
BILL:            Aye, that's the story fisherfolk hold dear, when storms come through,
                        they hear his voice in howlin' winds, in't so, Art?
ARTHUR:                                                                                                     Aye, 'tis true.
BILL:            But others say, the Devil rose from death and came ashore,
                        he's 'prenticed to a barber now, sweeps hairs from off the floor.
ARTHUR: 'Tis prattle, Bill – why'd Satan choose a barber, of all types?
JACK:          Perhaps he likes that pole, y'know, the white an' blood-red stripes.
BESS:          That may be, Father, for they used to bloodlet, days gone by,
                        do surgeries, take teeth, e'en put a leech upon your eye!
JACK:          What, leeches? Nay, Bess, you've been readin' nonsense books again.
BESS:          'Tis my encyclopaedia.
JACK:                                                        Look – glasses! Ern and Gwen!
                        She's always at that book of hers.
BILL:                                                                               She's right about the leech,
                        the takin' teeth as well, enough to make you shout an' screech!
                        If I was Satan, then I reckons, that's the life I'd lead,
                        instead of lyin' out at sea, all dead and wrapped in weed.
ARTHUR:  Well, each his own, but if you knew the ocean, all its might,
                        and seen a corpse come shoreward, blue and bloated, ghastly sight,
                        well, then you'd see, 'tis Devil's work.
BILL:                                                                                        I reckon that I would,
                        though bein' a barber's boy, and leechin', that still sounds quite good.
JACK:          Perhaps the Devil's harboured and apprenticed, takes two forms.
BESS:          Aye, daily doin' surgeries, but nightly makin' storms!

Poetry by Coo & Co The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 395 times
Written on 2016-02-08 at 20:50

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one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
lively dialog, a "filthy" night, a cast of endearing characters, questions that have no answers, written well and lively, what could be better?

'tis a great scene and no mistake, and it's likely that sweeney todd wouldn't argue the point.

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Well done, practically Shakespearean.

ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
Exultant work :)