Matthew Paul: Poetry & Stuff

Although I’m sad at his death, I’m glad to see that Mike Yarwood’s end-of-life time was spent at Brinsworth House, the retirement home for actors and other entertainers, in Twickenham. He was a huge star throughout my formative years. My poem below was published in Poetry Salzburg Review 36, in 2020.


The Ballad of Mike Yarwood

The King of Impersonation:
both the Steptoes, Larry Grayson,
Robin Day and Harold Wilson;

Doddy, Frostie and Brian Clough;
Jimmy Carter against Ted Heath
in a battle between their teeth;

Prince Charles, Columbo, Michael Caine,
Tommy Cooper and Hughie Green,
Kung Fu’s David Carradine—

I took them all off to a tee;
breaking to grin, ‘And this is me’,
to introduce Peters and Lee.

I spawned the nation’s mimicry:
‘Who loves ya, baby?’; ‘Ooh, Betty!’;
‘Up and under’; ‘Silly Billy’.

What’s said about imitation
is cobblers—it’s pure impression,
neither flattery nor flirtation.

John Major was too wet to be,
then Spitting Image did for me:
nobody wanted my Brucie.

A coronary made me give up
the booze. My Tony Blair was crap.
God forfend my Forrest Gump.

Within this high-security,
Weybridge gated community,
with other stars as broke as me,

I do the ex-wife, my caddy,
lawyers, shrinks and Raj the Taxi. 
Only drink reveals the real me,

the dubious and the evil:
Barrymore, Garnett, Enoch Powell,
both the Johnsons, Jimmy Savile—

a random mix of shameful blokes
and misremembered painful jokes.
I mean that most sincerely, folks.