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Best Poems Written by John Prior

Below are the all-time best John Prior poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Men

We're grouped together ready to party 
just standing around waiting for the coach.
Not a stag do exactly, just us men.
Before you ask, it wasn't fancy dress.
A football Friday night out for a drink,
one or two, possibly looking for sex. 
 
I certainly wasn't looking for sex, 
no women allowed in this lad’s party.
Tam who’s just arrived is getting a drink,
he’s our mate and first team footballing coach.
Back from a wedding rehearsal; full dress.
So he’ll be glad; being back amongst the men.
 
We arrive at a pub heaving with men;
just a handful of the opposite sex. 
God knows who came up with this shit address.
It isn’t lively enough to party.
We agree that we’ll get back on the coach,
however, Tam bought us all one more drink.

At the next pub I get the lads a drink,
‘Okay,’ I say to them, ‘It’s my round, men,’
and hand three pints of lager to the coach.
My thoughts absentmindedly turn to sex,
when I look towards a crowded hen party
and see a girl in a skimpy red dress.

‘Check out the girl, in the little red dress,’
I say to Liam, passing him his drink.
‘I’d love to get an invite to that party.’
‘Aye well, you, me, and the rest of the men;
thoaght you wurny interested in sex?’
he says, as we watch her approach the coach.
  	
It’s half past two; the last round’s on the coach. 
He’s fondling the girl, his hands up her dress.
‘Jesus man, go outside if you want sex,’
I say, ‘It’s your round; last orders for drink.
I’ll be up there with the rest of the men.’
The bar closes; it’s the end of the party.

I board the coach with the rest of the men.
It was a good party, plenty to drink,
and Tam’s having sex wearing the red dress.

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Movember

A prickly top lip
Promoting prostate health then
Pogonotomy

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Religious Education

Wur in RE an the nuns are gien                    
oot sweeties, fur getting the kweschins right.
Three oota three, then she’s askin mae who Jesus’ mither is.
‘Ah doan’t know sista,’ ah tell hur.
She isnae happy an tells mae tae hink aboot it. So ah dae
an ah wurk oot Jesus wis god. It wis a trick kweschin,
‘he didnae hiv ah mither.’ Ma
sweet stoats aff the side ae ma heid.
She’s spittin in ma coupon fur a name, an 
diggin hur digits in ma neck.
‘Ah doan’t know who Jesus’ friggin mither wis!’
Miraculously ah float tae the front ae the cless. Ma haun’s oot,
bit ah doan’t hink shill hit mae wae that big stick. Thwack!
Ah look doon it the bloody gash through ma puddlin 
eyes, ‘yoo’ve broke ma haun’ ah croak, 
then turn roon an boak.

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Morphs

Silly Syllables 
Making sounds out of morphemes
Through the lexicon

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Aw There

Ye tripped an fell 
an thorns gave you 
a skelf.
Aw there.

Ye clyped to tell
an maw gave ye 
a skelp.
Aw there.

Looked right and left
because you are  
so skelly.
Aw there.

Then oor da left
coz yoor no right. 
Naw really, yer no 
aw there.