The Rat and Other Poems
By Malcolm Whyman
Copyright 2012 Malcolm Whyman
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For my wife
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Ode To The Courgette And Marrow
Trap a slapper night or Grab a Granny
Ode To The Courgette and Marrow
Its skin deep beauty nestles there,
Among it's leaves of spiky hair.
It feels and smells quite appetizing,
A giant green Gods phallus rising.
But no matter who the cook,
It always tastes like fucking muck.
It has no substance and no taste,
The bloody thing’s a waste of space.
Those who praise it must I swear,
Only eat it ‘cos it's there.
With its cheeky little bend,
It makes the perfect housewives friend.
Should penis envy raise its head?
Slice it up for stew instead.
Or make it into courgette soup,
They say it’s good for brewers droop.
I grew its bloated brother marrow,
It cricked me back and smashed me barrow.
If such exertion weren’t enough it,
Took me several days to stuff it.
For all the kneading grunts and puffing,
All I got was skin and stuffing.
My advice is once they’re grown,
Leave the bloody things alone.
Don’t try to use them for the pot,
Leave them on the vine to rot.
The Rat
A scream came from the kitchen, my wife stood on a chair,
Pointing at the pantry “There’s a bloody rat in there,
He’s big and fat and hairy and he’s eaten all the bread
Exterminate the brute or we’ll find him in our bed”.
I couldn’t land a blow he was nimble as a cat,
The bloody thing would put to shame a circus acrobat,
My wife had had enough; she grabbed her coat and hat,
And ran off to her mother’s and left me to the rat.
Traps and bait and poison he’d carefully avoid,
But all else that was edible he totally destroyed,
I narrowly escaped an ugly death by fire,
When he shorted the electrics, biting through the wire.
I found my trusty Webley and sat up half the night,
And just as dawn was breaking I got him in my sight,
I shot him in the arse and then shot him in the head,
Then rang the wife to tell her “The bloody rat was dead”.
I turned back to the rat but the rat had disappeared,
Risen from the dead, inexplicably and weird,
With a pellet in his brain he’s a goner that’s for sure,
I was certain his obituary would not be premature,
No sooner had my wife come home and closed the door,
When a vile and awful odour crept from underneath the floor,
The rat was having his revenge, they say revenge is sweet,
But we cursed the rancid rodent as we fled into the street.
I was nearly at my tethers end, I couldn’t take much more,
I tore up all the carpets and me fancy parquet floor,
I grabbed his rotting carcass and threw it on the fire,
But it should have had a warning, light touch paper and retire.
I thought that his cremation would lift the horrid curse,
But as he started roasting the smell was even worse,
The stench pervaded everything malevolent and vile,
Then I swear I saw his cooking carcass break into a smile.
I stood in fascination this was not the time to gloat,
And then in frozen horror as the rat began to bloat,
The bloody thing exploded, it went off with a boom,
And rancid bits of rotting rat were blown across the room.
I was choking back the vomit as I staggered to a chair,
With filthy gobs of rotting rat clinging to my hair,
I called up to my wife “I’m renting us a flat,
We’re moving out tomorrow, I can’t take another rat”!
Banger Busher
The mechanic curled his lip and said “Take it to the tip,
That will never pass its MOT.
It’s a rusty heap of crap, it's barely fit for scrap
And I wouldn’t like to see you waste your fee.”
I had a tear in my eye when a friendly passer-by said,
“Don’t worry youth, I know a man who can.
Don’t send it to the crusher, get in touch with Banger Busher.
Two gun Banger Busher he’s your man.”
When I first met Banger, I thought I’d dropped a clanger,
As he stood beside my motor looking grim.
I’d thought he’d give my car the instant ‘coup de grace
But I really should have had more faith in him.
He looked every inch the hero with his gas pipe bandolearo
And two welding guns hanging from his hips.
Then he pulled a crumpled packet from his battered combat jacket
And stuffed an oily ‘benni’ in his lips.
He then began to prod with a rusty bit of rod,
Each hole received a mutter of regret.
My hopes were dashed and stunted,
Then he stood up and he grunted
“I’ve never lost a bloody patient yet.”
The mechanic gave a beam and said “She’s gone through like a dream,
That welding is as strong as armour plate,
And the chassis restoration is a credit to the nation,
It’s a work of art, it should be in the Tate.”
I had a special friend who was nearly at wits end.
Some yobs had nicked her car and burnt it out.
That afternoon I rang her saying “I’ve been in touch with Banger,
The famous wizard welder with the clout.”
He says go down to Podder Lane and tell the man who drives the crane,
To choose a wreck that’s more or less complete.
And in an hour or two he’ll have it looking good as new.
Then he’ll shove it through its MOT ‘tout sweet’.
When you need to earn a crust and your mobile heap of rust
Seems beyond the help of any mortal plan.
And your only way of earning is to keep those wheels a turning,
Send for Two guns Banger Busher, he’s your man.
On the Rocks
I recall that Monday morning when you said I was a bore
That you didn’t find me sexy didn’t love me anymore,
All day I couldn’t take it in that we were on the rocks,
But when I returned from work that night I found you’d changed the locks.
You wouldn’t let me take my clothes you wouldn’t let me in,
And when I phoned next morning you said they’re in the bin.
You said I’d had a cheque returned for just a small amount,
Then sniggered when you told me you’d cleared our joint account.
I was gutted when the judge declared that you could keep the car,
‘Cos you had to take the kids to school and wouldn’t walk that far.
And then it dawned on me that you were on a winning streak,
When your maintenance was set at three hundred pounds a week.
The judge said you could keep the house ‘till the kids got their degrees,
And I would have to pay for all their education fees.
My life was now in ruins all I could do was sob,
I couldn’t take the pressure so they sacked me from my job.
The kids don’t want to see me now ‘cos you’ve told them I’m the baddy,
And now you’ve moved your lover in they call the bastard Daddy.
They tell me that you’re happy now they say you’re on a roll,
While I’m dossing in a hostel and living on the dole.
A crumpled lotto ticket relieved my dark despair,
And overnight I became a multi-millionaire.
When you heard you came to see me with a low cut sexy dress on,
And told me you were sorry now and said you’d learned your lesson.
It seems your lover left you an affair you now regret,
But it seems he also left you fifty grand in dept.
They say revenge is sweet but a dish best eaten cold,
She’s living in a council flat now the house is sold.
I sent the kids to boarding school to teach the some respect,
Then flew to the Bahamas for a few months to reflect.
Now all you loyal married men with selfish wives and kids,
Don’t expect any sympathy when you’re on the skids.
One Thing
I didn’t pop the question and I didn’t buy the ring,
She said “you men are all the same you only want one thing”.
I said “if I denied it I would surely be a liar,
Its true I only want one thing, but what do you desire”.
She said “I want a modest mansion with gardens front and rear,
And a gardener to tend them when the weeds appear.
I want a spacious kitchen with every new device,
And a cook to keep it tidy and make me something nice”.
“I want a shiny limousine with a chauffeur in the front,
And I want a horse called Whisky for when I join the hunt.
And then I want three children two girls and a boy,
And I also want a nanny for when the kids annoy”.
“I want a dress allowance and a Debenhams account,
And I also want a cheque book for writing large amounts.
I want a maid to dress me and pass me my perfume,
And a butler to fuss over me when I walk into a room”.
“I want to go to Paris to choose the best couture,
And a husband with a good career to make me feel secure.
I want him to be faithful buy me flowers by the bunch,
So that I can hold my head up with the other wives who lunch”.
“I want a sailing yacht and a villa in Mustique,
And a visit to my hairdresser at least three times a week,
I want a nice white wedding and a big gold wedding ring,
But you men are all the same you only want one thing”.
By now I was caressing the tenner in my jeans,
As I sneaked off to the pub and left her to her dreams.
As I sat there with my pint my head began to sing,
You men are all the same you only want one thing.
Teds
Down the Palais Friday night it was rock around the clock,
All the city Teds were there we’d queued around the block.
The smoke and music hit us as we swaggered through the door,
And the crystal ball shot spangled light across the crowded floor.
I wore a velvet collared drape coat a lovely shade of pink,
And a pair of brothel creepers so bright they made you blink.
A stylish line in drainpipes so tight they needed zips,
My overcoat was crombie bought from Burtons on the drip.
I wore a brill-creamed Tony Curtis with a DA at the rear,
And a special cream for acne that made your skin look clear.
A wad of Wrigley’s chewing gum to make your breath smell nice,
And topped it off with lashings of my aftershave Old Spice.
I copped this Players Angel and filled her tank with gin,
Then crept out to the coke heap to take her for a spin.
But the boiler keeper caught us and shouted “Do you mind,
It’s me that has to shovel up them things you leave behind”.
And so we sought the dance floor fighting to get through,
Coats of many colours shoes of every hue.
Bobbing beehives, swirling skirts and smooth suspendered thighs,
Sweaty bodies and cheap perfume that bought tears to your eyes.
Suddenly Big Ginger crumpled in a heap,
He’d felt up Bulwell Brian’s bird while they smooched the creep.
Now Bulwell Brian was 5 foot 2 but he couldn’t let this lie,
So he nigh on topped Big Ginger with his bootlace tie.
There’s nothing like a punch up to set the room alight,
And all the other Teds piled in when someone shouted “fight”.
There were bottles, boots and coshes drawn at each imagined jibe,
As Radford Ted fought Bulwell Ted for the honour of his tribe.
Rents and tears and bloodstains wrecked immaculate attire,
But such things counted for nothing in a punch up or a fire.
Round the fighting mass of bodies the birds were keeping score,
But the management had had enough and telephoned the law.
The law arrived all fighting fit and drove us to the cells,
And just to show us who was boss they gave us seven bells.
Up before the judge next day and a big fine for affray,
Then we staggered out of court to rock and roll another day.
The Beeston Pudding Wars
On baking day in Beeston it started I recall,
At the rock cake competition in the little parish hall.
The ladies all prepared their cakes despite a pressing fear,
That Mrs Jones would win it well she’d won for thirty years.
Mrs Jones was baking when she answered nature’s call,
And her recipe flew out and over Mrs Brown’s back wall.
Mrs Brown soon grabbed it and seeing at a glance,
It was Mrs Jones’s recipe she swiftly seized her chance.
The judges were unanimous the contestants were surprised,
When the vicar handed Mrs Brown both first and second prize,
But Mrs Jones in fury cried you thieving bloody cow,
You’ve nicked my granny’s recipe you’ve started something now.
A vicious fight erupted split down the class divide,
Rock cake flew like cannon balls the judges had to hide.
Casualties were light according to the press,
But when the fight was over, what a bloody mess.
An ambush by the Jones gang kicked off on pension day,
And thirty senior citizens were cautioned for affray.
The war was escalating to a conflict of attrition,
Soggy suet puddings had been used as ammunition.
The U.N called a meeting at an office in New York,
But Burundi cast its veto when they’d finished all the talk.
It seems such tribal conflicts were rare on England’s shores,
And Burundians couldn’t get enough of The Beeston Pudding Wars.
Meanwhile back in Beeston a cunning plan was hatched,
When Mrs Jones realized both sides were fairly matched.
A steak and kidney pudding was slowly taking shape,
With two hundred weight of kidney and half a ton of steak.
Wiser heads urged caution when they heard of her intentions,
The pud would clearly contravene Geneva’s strict conventions.
Then sanctions busting Bramcote helped set the war alight,
With barrow loads of flour and lard smuggled in by night.
They hired a helicopter to transport the mighty pud,
And aimed it down on Mrs Brown on her doorstep where she stood,
But a minor wind-speed error upset the calculations,
It squashed a passing panda car heading for the station.
A great relief was felt by all, when The Pudding Wars were ended,
And the Jones Gang and the Brown Gang all got six months suspended.
We never will forget those days shaken to the core,
And the days we spent behind the lines in the Beeston Pudding Wars.
The Boots Bubble Popper
I sit beside this huge machine all shining brass and painted green,
It’s a quality controller of the most exquisite kind.
And what it’s been designed to do is test and measure each shampoo
It’s the king and I’m the queen of the Boots assembly line.
It measures every molecule no matter how miniscule,
Then blows a mighty bubble of a regulation size.
Then measures its consistency and also its viscosity,
For even smart computers can’t compete with human eyes.
Now a miss-shaped shampoo bubble is an early sign of trouble,
And a product not conforming must go straight in to the bin.
So with infinite precision I make a small incision,
Which in layman’s parlance means I prick it with a pin.
One day it blew a soapy sphere its characteristics were unclear,
I prodded and I poked it but the bubble wouldn’t pop.
To use correct terminology I detected an anomaly,
So for close examination the procedure had to stop.
I had to cease my popping while I pressed the knob for stopping,
I pressed it and I pressed it but I couldn’t get it in.
The machine just kept on going its massive bubbles blowing,
It was then I panicked and dropped me bloody pin.
The bubbles filled up seven floors and so we opened all the doors,
But it wasn’t quite enough to do the trick.
We threw the windows wide to let the bubbles get outside,
Where they swiftly floated skyward fast and thick.
They stopped the buses, trams and trains and grounded all the bloody planes,
I was nearly in hysterics thinking Christ what have I done.
Then a heavy shower of rain washed all the bubbles down the drain,
And left the puzzled citizens blinking in the sun.
The beggars in the market square had glossy beards and shiny hair,
The Council House stood proud and gleaming white.
The streets of Hyson Green had never been so clean,
And many an unwashed window saw the light.
I thought that I would soon be toast with nasty letters to the Post,
But the hardy folk of Nottingham didn’t give two hoots.
Their faces had a lovely sheen their cars were spotless and pristine,
And they quite enjoyed their bubble bath courtesy of Boots.
The Kid from Allenbrooke
Life is just a lottery some kids have all the luck,
But it never seemed to happen for the kid from Allenbrooke.
I met him on the highroad when he was just a pup,
And through the passing years I watched him growing up.
Restless and unruly trashing bins and sniffing glue,
When I asked him why he said piss off it’s nowt to do with you.
I told him better schooling would stand him in good stead,
He told me bunking off was cool and he’d rather stay in bed.
A spell of petty thieving soon got his collar felt,
But fate was only playing out the hand that he’d been dealt.
He sneaked into The Durham when he was seventeen,
The booze the pills the music were the answer to a dream.
Always the outsider dying to get in,
He was treated like a loser who was never going to win.
The years would not be kind to him but still he played the clown,
While fit young bucks were coming up he was slowing down.
The cool kids and the rude boys thought he was just a joke,
And so he found a smaller pond down at the Royal Oak.
Already twice a father he couldn’t settle down.
Domestic life was boring and his life was on the town.
Working didn’t suit him he was into dodgy stuff,
For his clothes with fancy labels and his latest bit of fluff.
He found a ready audience for his bluster and his barge,
And there he sat from early doors giving it the large.
He crossed an ugly customer and when it came to blows,
He ended up in traction plus a bloody broken nose.
He made his final journey from The Oak down to the Queens,
And took his darts and pool cue to join the old has beens.
He never saw the stolen car just heard the tyres squeal,
And he never saw the face of his son behind the wheel.
The Man from Hyson Green
He cut a dapper figure in these parts seldom seen,
And all eyes turned to follow the man from Hyson Green.
His suit, his shirt and shoes were of the finest cut,
Lean and fit his figure the whole immaculate.
A ruby studded Rolex glittered on his wrist,
His rings were set with diamonds, his tiepin amethyst.
He ignored the looks of envy, the chatter and the talk,
For he’d passed this way before when he took his evening walk.
He strode up Bentink Road and as he neared the top,
He bought two cans of Special Brew from an all night corner shop.
The shop girl said be careful wearing all that bling,
As he put his cans of Special Brew in an old bag made of string.
“It’s nice of you to worry but I think I’ll be alright”
Said the man from Hyson Green as he stepped into the night.
He paused for just a moment to straighten up his tie,
And caught the skulking shadows from the corner of his eye.
His gait began to falter, his head began to sink,
And it looked to passers by as though he’d had too much to drink.
If he heard the steps that followed or caught the weapons glint,
The man from Hyson Green strode on and never gave a hint.
He turned a darkened corner and tightened like a spring,
And took a firmer grip upon his old bag made of string.
Then the old bag went humming as he whirled it round his head,
And gave the cans of special Brew the force of spinning lead.
His pursuers turned the corner and heard a fearful drone,
Too late the cans of Special Brew tore flesh and fractured bone.
And almost as an after thought he gave them both the boot,
Then deftly searched their pockets and relieved them of their loot.
He turned and left them moaning, just two unlucky buggers,
They’d met the man from Hyson Green whose trade was mugging muggers.
As for the man from Hyson Green, he left no trace at all,
Just two empty cans of Special Brew standing on a wall.
Trap a Slapper Night
You can keep your singles clubs, divorced and separated.
The sights of all those hang dog looks will leave you quite deflated.
You only have to try it once you’ll soon see that I’m right,
So get down to the Palais on Trap a Slapper Night.
Age is no impediment you’ll find the one for you.
There’s callow youths of 18 years with grannies 72,
But better not get legless you could wake up with a fright,
When you turn to face your partner after Trap a Slapper Night.
She may not be a beauty queen nor yet your heart's desire,
But you don’t look at the mantelpiece when you poke the fire.
In all their perfumed finery they set the room alight,
So raise a glass to the gallant gals on Trap a Slapper Night.
Looks were not an issue as round the room we sped,
And few were left to wander home and seek an empty bed.
Many a bride her husband’s pride could trace her great delight,
To those ladies of experience on Trap a Slapper Night.
A young man who can barely shave is seeking a connection.
He needs a helping hand to steer him in the right direction.
He’ll be taken to a bosom and before the morning light,
Some lass will make a man of him on Trap a Slapper Night.
Arm in arm at midnight in one great Palais glide,
Come the morning very few would find their needs unsatisfied.
Brash and bold with hearts of gold they put the blues to flight,
They knew the score and stormed the floor on Trap a Slapper night.
I went to the Doctor he said “How do you do?”
I said “I’m feeling peaky that’s why I’ve come to you”.
He said “I’ve a question to ask you right away,
How many fags do you smoke in a day?”
“Ten fags a day, ten fags a day”.
“We can’t have you smoking ten fags a day,
My advice to you is stop it right away,
If you want longevity there’s a price to pay”.
I gave up smoking, it wasn’t very nice but if you want
Longevity you’ve got to pay the price.
I went to the Doctor he said “How do you do?”
I said “I’m feeling peaky that’s why I’ve come to you”.
He said “I’ve a question to ask you right away,
How many pints do you drink in a day?”.
“Three pints a day, three pints a day”.
“We can’t have you drinking three pints a day,
My advice to you is stop it right away.
If you want longevity there’s a price to pay”.
I gave up drinking it wasn’t very nice but if you want
Longevity you’ve got to pay the price.
I went to the Doctor he said “How do you do?”
I said “I’m feeling peaky that’s why I’ve come to you”.
He said “There’s a question I’ll ask you right away,
How much sex do you have in a day?”
“Three times a day, three times a day”
“We can’t have you bonking three times a day”
“My advice to you is stop it right away,
If you want longevity there’s a price to pay”.
I gave up sex it wasn’t very nice but if you want
Longevity you’ve got to pay the price.
I went to the Doctor when I was old and grey,
I was thinking of taking a little holiday.
“Little holiday, what can I say, we’ve got a little nursing
Home, it’s not far away, not far away, one hundred pounds a day.
“There we’ll make you comfy till you fade away”.
“Not far away, one hundred pounds a day and you’ll make
Me comfy till I fade away”.
I popped into me local to buy a bag of crisps,
And there were all the regulars taking all the risks,
There sat the Doctor, it filled me with alarm he was
Drinking and smoking, a girl upon each arm.
I had three double whiskies and then a big cigar,
And made a date for Friday with the maid behind the bar.
I said to the Doctor “I’m doing as you do. I’ve lead a life of misery listening to you!”.
The Nottingham Lads
The Nottingham Lads have sailed away,
To fight on a foreign shore,
And they’ve said farewell to the poor relief,
And the dust of the factory floor,
And they’ve said farewell to the terraced row,
And the outside privy’ stench,
They’ve taken a chance on a trip to France,
And the wrath of a German trench.
You’ll hear them tell that war is hell,
And a soldier’s life is harsh,
Then smile and say that life was cheap,
On the streets of Narrow Marsh,
And a new recruit gets a khaki suit,
And eats three times a day,
And many’s the pail of Shipstones Ale,
You can buy on a soldiers pay.
They were under fire in the mud and wire,
When the gas came drifting in,
And a letter from the colonel,
Informed the next of kin.
They died for king and country,
Though they’d never met the king.
Whose country had they died for,
They never owned a thing.
In the musty gloom of a terraced room,
There’s a medal cast in lead,
And the rain has dripped where the gothic script,
Says a Nottingham lad lies dead.
It wasn’t the thrall of Kitcheners call,
Or the flag that made him stray,
Just the khaki suit of a new recruit,
And three square meals a day.
Cuts
She’s laid up by the basin, where the old boats go to die,
Forgotten and abandoned like the cuts she used to ply.
She was made for bulk and tonnage,
And built with style and grace,
Then stranded in the shallows by history’s changing pace.
We legged her through the tunnels and we hauled her through the locks,
Down to gas street basin and up to Shardlow Docks.
Back and forth to Leicester with leather meal and grain,
And I’m waiting for the day we’ll see the likes of her again.
I was thirty years her skipper as my father was before,
Too numerous to mention were the cargoes that she bore.
The life blood of a nation an endless running stream,
Her sisters forged the future long before the age of steam.
First there came the railways they took our heavy loads,
Then the screaming diesels and the love affair with roads.
It can’t go on forever one day I know I shall,
See the heavy freight returning to the river and canal.
Never mind your fibreglass and your floating caravans,
And your cruisers made of steel no thicker than tin cans.
Give me that old Bolinder and capacity to spare,
And I’ll show you the story of the tortoise and the hare.
Steeplejack
I’ve been a Steeple jack most of me life,
On the chimneys of Nottingham town.
And though the show’s free when you look up at me,
Remember that I’m looking down.
When I’m out on the town with me feet on the ground,
I’m a drunken and quarrelsome sod.
On top of a stack with the wind in me back,
Is the closest that I get to God.
Plasters and Brickies, Plumbers and Chippies,
All sleep like a log in their beds.
But wouldn’t you have a nightmare or two,
If your life always hung by a thread.
So raise up your glass to the stacks of the past,
And drink to bold Steeple jacks all.
Always remember the higher you climb,
The further you’re likely to fall.
I gave my heart to those smokey old tarts,
The long the short and the tall.
But it’s easy to see they’ll be no work for me,
Now that chimneys have started to fall.
The days have gone by when the stacks touched the sky,
And I treated each one like a friend.
For year after year my old friends disappear,
Soon there won’t be a chimney to mend.
Now time has passed on and the chimneys have gone,
And I think of those days with a frown.
For my contribution to cut down pollution,
Was helping to knock ‘em all down.
Raymond's Song
Raymond’s given up the booze cruel circumstance has claimed him,
He should have done it years ago and no-one would have blamed him.
For shame the devil tell the truth,
His was a drunken mis-spent youth.
Poor Francis is the living proof that no-one could restrain him.
On his sofa Raymond lies his cocoa gently steaming,
The lids fall on his tired eyes and he is softly dreaming,
Of mammoth feats of yester year,
Gussling umpteen pints of beer,
His eyes were bright his mind was clear,
Last Orders had no meaning.
Lock-ins were his stock in trade he never backed a loser,
The fiercest landlord he’d persuade,
To serve another few, sir.
Raymond had mysterious powers,
For finding pubs with after hours,
And still his reputation towers above your common boozer.
We hear his voice along the bar,
Complaining of short measure.
We shuffle around to make some room,
And welcome back our treasure,
We say “we’ve missed you in the snug
Your stories and your goodnight hug”.
He lifts his pint and gives a shrug,
Saying “now repent at leisure”.
Notts Allotmenteers
While tending their allotment young Tony and old Lou,
Old Lou was 83 and young Tony 62.
They were doing double digging to plant their Jersey Royals,
When young Tony stuck his spade in and up shot a spout of oil.
They capped it with a pumpkin and retired to their shed,
Old Lou said to young Tony, “It's time to use our head”.
“Give it to the Government” young Tony said “No fear,
We’ll treble all the pensions of the Notts Allotmenteers”.
A meeting was arranged at the association hut,
Where thousands then assembled and the motion to them put,
There was not a voice dissenting and they raised three ringing cheers
For trebling all the pensions of the Notts Allotmenteers
The news it soon reached Parliament, where the House of Commons sat
The party leader rose to speak, a pompous autocrat
He said “We will not tolerate this blatant lawlessness,
Don’t bother with the Police Force, send in the S.A.S”.
The S.A.S attacked at dawn but never fired a shot,
The Allotmenteers hit them with everything they’d got
They’d built some mighty catapults like siege engines of war,
With ammunition plentiful from vegetables stored.
They fired beetroot, spuds and turnips, cauliflowers and Swedes,
Rotten, soft tomatoes and peas as hard as beads.
The force elite was swiftly beat by beanpoles hurled like spears,
And soon became the prisoners of the Notts Allotmenteers
A voice came o’er the megaphone some thought it smug and rude,
Saying “Yes you’ve struck oil but it certainly ain’t crude,
It’s an Army oil tank, been lost for sixty years,
If you give us back the S.A.S we’ll let you oil your shears!”.
Just about a year ago my Dad turned sixty-five,
And thought he’d go adventuring while he was still alive.
He set upon a mission where he would boldly go,
And ride the city transport as a bus-pass Romeo.
He chose the older ladies as he scoured the lonely hearts,
But realised he’d have to be a man of many parts.
Each demanded someone different with each letter that they wrote,
Expressing every fantasy to help them float their boat.
Lots of older ladies had flown the golden cage,
And dumped their inhibitions when they reached a certain age.
And so to keep them happy he told a few pork pies,
Which meant he had to court each one in a separate disguise.
One wanted Bob the Builder another Postman Pat,
And one just wanted bearskin in a Guardsman’s furry hat.
On Monday he was toy-boy in t-shirt, wig and jeans,
On Tuesday he was suited up as a businessman of means.
On Wednesday he wore posing pouch the lady wore a thong,
And he knew that it was party night when he felt her studded tongue.
Grace the curate’s widow while snogging in the pews,
Would lift her skirts and tease him with some very rude tattoos.
Mrs Drew from Bridgford a blue rinsed little gem,
Produced some whips and handcuffs and demanded S and M.
On Thursday he was bit of rough his date was most impressed,
When he turned up wearing fake tattoos in his mucky old string vest.
But all this dirty dancing began to take its toll,
With warden aided Wendy whose pash was rock and roll.
He’d never disappoint her but he felt a proper wuss,
In full Teddy boy regalia riding on a Barton’s bus.
But ladies he must leave you now for the hour is getting late,
You’ll find him in the Lonely Hearts ring up and make a date.
Life is made for living you too could boldly go,
Fulfilling your desires and dreams with the Bus-pass Romeo.
The Tramps Bicycle
Tony the tramp would be seen round the town,
When winter his travels curtailed.
And down in the crypt of the sisters of mercy,
The warmth of their calling prevailed.
The sight of his plight brought him pints every night,
And sympathy flooded his way.
People offered him treats as he walked down the street,
And kept him well fed every day.
Then a generous donor gave Tony a bike,
That would otherwise go to the tip.
He polished it oiled it adjusted the seat,
His new status soon got a grip.
Times got suddenly lean as he rode his machine,
And all round the city he ranged.
The tramp didn’t tramp he rode on a bike,
And people’s attitudes changed.
His beer dried up and his treats were no more,
He now had to scrounge for his bread.
So upwardly mobile he soon got a job,
Delivering free-papers instead.
Then a gay divorcee thought she could see,
Through all the rags and the grime.
Beneath the veneer he was kind and sincere,
She would polish him up given time.
She got him a job that paid a few bob,
She was always out purchasing things.
To top up his pay he worked two shifts a day,
Her material needs had grown wings.
For six months or more he was on the shop floor,
His imprisonment crept up in stealth.
He stared out in rage through the bars of his cage,
For he knew that he’d built it himself.
At the end of his shift someone gave him a lift,
To somewhere near the M1.
He’d thrown his old bike in the factory dike,
So he happily stuck out his thumb.
###
If you enjoyed these poems you might like to
discover other titles by Malcolm Whyman at Smashwords.com:
This book gives a captivating view of wartime Britain, the hungry 50's, the swinging 60's, the turbulent 70's and the free for all of the early 80's.