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    In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works
    In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works
    In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works
    Ebook157 pages1 hour

    In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works

    By John Lennon

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    About this ebook

    An omnibus edition of two works of John Lennon’s “fascinating…whimsy” (The Sunday Times, London) poetry, prose, and drawings that will “jolt [you] into gusts of laughter” (The Guardian).

    A humorous compilation of poetry, prose, and artwork from two of John Lennon’s classic works, In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works. Known as the Beatles’s Renaissance man, Lennon is widely regarded as one of the most impactful musicians in history. Originally published in 1964, this “quirky, funny collection of stories, poems, and drawings” (The New York Times) is a must-have for John Lennon and Beatles fans everywhere.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon & Schuster
    Release dateOct 5, 2010
    ISBN9781451625998
    In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works
    Author

    John Lennon

    John Lennon was a founding member of The Beatles, the most commercially successful band in the history of popular music. In 1970, Lennon embarked on a solo career that produced worldwide hit songs such as “Give Peace a Chance” and “Imagine.” Visit johnlennon.com.

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    Reviews for In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works

    4/5

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    • 3/5
      Certainly absurd... Monty Python-esque. Most interestingly, I found myself often reading aloud - a lesson I learned while studying Shakespeare - to help with my understanding of the text.
    • 1/5
      Stephen King once said that once he became established that "they would publish [his] laundry list." John Lennon's laundry list might have been more interesting than this unmitigated glop. If I hadn't been a Beatles' fan when I bought it....

    Book preview

    In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the Works - John Lennon

    picturetitletitle

    CONTENTS

    Introduction

    Partly Dave

    No Flies on Frank

    Good Dog Nigel

    At the Denis

    The Fat Growth on Eric Hearble

    The Wrestling Dog

    Randolf’s Party

    The Famous Five through Woenow Abbey

    Sad Michael

    I Wandered

    A Letter

    Scene three Act one

    Treasure Ivan

    All Abord Speeching

    The Fingletoad Resort of Teddiviscious

    Alec Speaking

    Liddypool

    You Might Well Arsk

    Nicely Nicely Clive

    Neville Club

    The Moldy Moldy Man

    *On Safairy with Whide Hunter

    I Sat Belonely

    Henry and Harry

    Deaf Ted, Danoota, (and me)

    A Suprise for Little Bobby

    Halbut Returb

    Unhappy Frank

    On this Churly Morn

    Victor Triumphs Again and Mrs. Weatherby Learns a Lesson

    I Remember Arnold

    *Written in conjugal with Paul.

    Hi! My name is Yoko Ono.

    I’d like you to meet John Lennon.

    INTRODUCTION

    At Woolton village fete I met him. I was a fat schoolboy and, as he leaned an arm on my shoulder, I realised that he was drunk. We were twelve then, but, in spite of his sideboards, we went on to become teenage pals.

    Aunt Mimi, who had looked after him since he was so high, used to tell me how he was cleverer than he pretended, and things like that. He had written a poem for the school magazine about a hermit who said:

    ‘as breathing is my life, to stop I dare not dare.’ This made me wonder right away – ‘Is he deep ?’ He wore glasses so it was possible, and even without them there was no holding him. ‘What ‘bus?’ he would say to howls of appreciative laughter.

    He went to Quarry Bank High School for Boys and later attended to the Liverpool Art College. He left school and played with a group called the Beatles, and, here he is with a book. Again I think – ‘Is he deep ?’ ‘Is he arty, with it or cultured ?’

    There are bound to be thickheads who will wonder why some of it doesn’t make sense, and others who will search for hidden meanings.

    ‘What’s a Brummer?’

    ‘There’s more to ‘dubb owld boot’ than meets the eye.’

    None of it has to make sense and if it seems funny then that’s enough.

    sign

    P.S. I like the drawings too.

    picture

    Partly Dave

    There once upon a time was a man who was partly Dave – he had a mission in life. ‘I’m partly Dave’ he would growm in the morning which was half the battle. Over breakfast he would again say ‘I am partly Dave’ which always unnerved Betty. ‘Your in a rut Dave’ a voice would say on his way to work, which turned out to be a coloured conductor! ‘It’s alright for you.’ Dave used to think, little realising the coloured problem.

    Partly Dave was a raving salesman with the gift of the gob, which always unnerved Mary. ‘I seem to have forgotten my bus fare, Cobber,’ said Dave not realising it. ‘Gerroff the bus then’ said Basubooo in a voice that bode not boot, not realising the coloured problem himself really. ‘O.K.’ said partly Dave, humbly not wishing to offend. ‘But would you like your daughter to marry one ?’ a voice seem to say as Dave lept off the bus like a burning spastic.

    No Flies on Frank

    picture

    There were no flies on Frank that morning – after all why not ? He was a responsible citizen with a wife and child, wasn’t he ? It was a typical Frank morning and with an agility that defies description he leapt into the barthroom onto the scales. To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall heavy! He couldn’t believe it and his blood raised to his head causing a mighty red colouring.

    ‘I carn’t not believe this incredible fact of truth about my very body which has not gained fat since mother begat me at childburn. Yea, though I wart through the valet of thy shadowy hut I will feed no norman. What grate qualmsy hath taken me thus into such a fatty hardbuckle.’

    Again Frank looked down at the awful vision which clouded his eyes with fearful weight. ‘Twelve inches more heavy, Lo!, but am I not more fatty than my brother Geoffery whose father Alec came from Kenneth – through Leslies, who begat Arthur, son of Eric, by the house of Ronald and April – keepers of James of Newcastle who ran Madeline at 2-1 by Silver Flower, (10-2) past Wot-ro-Wot at 4/3d a pound ?’

    He journeyed downstairs crestfalled and defective – a great wait on his boulders – not even his wife’s battered face could raise a smile on poor Frank’s head – who as you know had no flies on him. His wife, a former beauty queer, regarded him with a strange but burly look.

    ‘What ails thee, Frank?’, she asked stretching her prune. ‘You look dejected if not informal,’

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