George Formby

George Formby‘s Tune

Didn’t need a book to teach him

words found him, cheek first

in smoke halls and sticky floors

where the punchlines rolled

as easy as the banjo twanged

Grin like a pint raised mid-laugh

never too proud to cock a wink

never too clean to sweep the edge

of a saucy verse or a backstreet heart

Wigan born — aye, and built for the boards

the kind of man you’d nudge in the ribs

not just for a joke, but because he was yours

a bit daft, dead clever,

salted with the same rain

The BBC turned its nose up

called him rude,

but the people clapped louder

they knew his songs smelled of chimney soot

and chip shop grease

of snogging behind sheds,

not marbled halls and hush

They banned his window-cleaning ditty

like windows didn’t need a wipe

like we don’t all peek

where we shouldn’t sometimes

Frank Skinner traced the grin years later

stood in the quiet of his stone

but George?

George was never quiet

He’s in Warrington’s rain

in the tap of a foot at the market

in statues that look ready to burst into song

at a lad tuning up,

cheeky as ever

And he never needed diamonds

just strings,

a stage,

and someone laughing back