The Morris once, was for the man
but now the other gender can
engender its own style.
The Morris, it is versatile.
I’ve seen the stick and bell and cloth
appropriated by the Goth.
The Morris it may go to seed,
but flower again it shall indeed
and powerfully blossom out
as hearty as a Brussels sprout.
With the Morris Men of Hammersmith
I danced out in The Square.
With all ages of citizen, I quickly learned to share
the step and flick of handkering, required for the parade.
In and out of local shops
and in and out of shade,
as the concertina played
and assistants weren’t resistant,
though no purchases were made.
It doesn’t help, it may be said
the way we don’t promote the tread
of Morris manners in the school,
they’ve hardly heard of Squire and Fool.
I took some inner-city youth to meet the Bampton Squire,
he taught them but the basics, but I tell you, they caught fire.
The little with which they were hit, set city eyes alight.
‘This is alright,’ said one ‘… This Morrisons Dancing.’
Stick and hanky, step and line
there’s rumours that it’s in decline.
My answer is a little dull:
there’s no decline, it’s just a lull.
Like concertinas squeezed to shut
until the arms unbend,
like deckchairs go back in the hut
at every summer’s end – but out again that seating comes,
like dentures in and out of gums.
A tried and tested treasure, sure;
the Morris, Doris, shall endure.