“Duw, that Dylan Thomas bloke can write ...
I hear he likes to drink and likes to fight,
Well, he must be a terrifying sight
Brawling with the locals in the night.
I’m told that he can really make words sing ...
Well mother bach yn wir there is a thing,
Singing words all flying on the wing mun
A veritable literary king.
Maybe that’s the answer that I need
A drink or two, but first I’ll have a feed
Mother, heat the broth right now indeed
I’d best have some before I drink this mead.”
So Idris ate the broth and filled his glass
And sat down at the table on his ass ...
With quill and paper set before him so ...
He set to write a poem, there you go!
But what to write about, he couldn’t think...
He even mused on mother at the sink mun,
He wrote and wrote and wrote in blackest ink
But found it difficult to make his words rhyme or set some sort of rhythmical structure.
“I do not think that writing is for me,”
I’ve been here now for days ... How many? Three?
I’m like a blinkin’ monkey in a tree ...”
“What kind of monkey Dad?” “A chimpanzee, Gwilym.”
So Idris realised he was no bard
The job had proved for him to be too hard...
And yet he loved his literature so
He went to see the Eisteddfodic show...
Well, on the maes young Dylan proudly stood
Reading in the rain without a hood...
Fag in mouth and beer glass clasped in hand
Our Idrys watched his hero like he planned.
Duw that Dylan Thomas bloke can write
About the raging of that blinking light ...
But there’s not a bloomin lighthouse down in Laugharne –
He must be drunk again Jawl man a farn.