Liverpool, Iíve never seen you
in the flesh, but known you from TV
in your red jersey with 'Carlsberg'
stamped across your chest.
Youíre kicking the white football
into the goal of my front room,
though Iím not a true believer.
Liverpool, I read your Mersey poets:
that small Penguin collection Ė
Henri, McGough and Patton,
now dog-eared and jaundice-yellow;
yes, I caught the Liverpool flu
and wrote some long-haired poems.
And Iím still singing Hey Jude, Liverpool:
circa 1968 Ė the long version
on my earphone-transistor radio
in a suburb in Canberra, Australia,
while doing the washing up.
I am lead singer
to a set of steaming dinner plates,
until Mum hounds me
from the other room
to lower my volume - so Iím off
to put my back against the front yard elm
(another English export
to the gum tree continent).
My head is in heaven
and my feet are in the gutter
for the full 7 minutes,7 seconds
(longest ever Number 1
says the DJ each night).
I'm a yowling yellow dingo
under the Southern Cross.
By Chris Mooney-Singh