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