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

Previous news story

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.