Cuttings

Here we go 'round the mulberry bush,

The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush.

Here we go 'round the mulberry bush,

On a cold and frosty morning morning.

They took a sprig from Hatfeild Hall

And planted it in Wakefield Gaol

A Mulberry bush grew on the spot

Its humble origins forgot

And there female prisoners exercised at night

Beneath the pale Yorkshire...

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Cuttings

They took a sprig from Hatfeild Hall

And planted it in Wakefield Gaol

A Mulberry bush grew on the spot

Its humble origins forgot

And there prisoners exercised at night

Beneath the pale Yorkshire moonlight

Round and round the tree they went

Those sinners who could not repent

Before that Mulberry tree had died

They took some cuttings to the outside

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Grit

I cannot say for certain where I’m ‘from’

beyond the day I crawled into this world

and that’s the way I like it, truth be told,

to shape my own existence from the start.

That blond boy there with freckles and basin cut,

a shy one, wearing simple NHS specs,

in clothes bought big so he could grow

to fill them on a diet of Yorkshire pud.

An artist’s bent...

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