The Works by PAM AYRES Pam's unique form of humorous verse takes a new look at the joys and tribulations of daily life. Her observations are touching, honest and above all inspired by a sense of the gentle absurdity of ordinary events. "The Works" is the best of the work which has made Pam Ayres a worldwide celebrity and best selling poet. Scanner's Note: Each poem and section is preceded by Control-L (ASCII 12). You may, therefore, be able to use Pageup or Pagedown to move through the book by poem or section. Published by BBC Books an imprint of BBC Worldwide Publishing BBC Worldwide Ltd., Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane, London W12 0tr. First published 1992 ISBN 0 563 36751 2 CONTENTS Introduction Heroes Do You Think Bruce Springsteen Would Fancy Me? The Ballad of Bill Spinks' Bedstead Jones, the Invisible Man of the Third Paul O'Chatberg Grogan The Old Gloucester Sausage The Voice at the Foot of the Stairs Sling Another Chair Leg on the Fire, Mother The Spot Welder's Dream Clive the Fearless Birdman Ned Sails in the Sunset Tragedies The Neglected Wife's Valentine The Horse's Farewell to his Cowboy Nice On Comparing my Husband to Robbie Burns Oh, I Wish I'd Looked After Me Teeth The Exiled Gum Miss Grundy and the Grand Hotel Sam and the Paraffin Man I am a Dry Stone Waller Not you, Basil Little Lawrence Greenaway The Dolly on the Dustcart I am Going to Kill My Husband I'm The Dog who Didn't Win a Prize Arthur Dan Steely, the Novelty Act Dear Lord Lichfield The Sea Shell Oh No, I Got a Cold The Vegetable Garden and the Runaway Horse The Husband's Lament The Secretary's Song Bournemouth How I Loved You, Ethel Preedy, with Your Neck so Long and Slender Ever Since I Had Me Op Thoughts of a Late-Night Knitter Goodbye Worn Out Morris 1000 40 Shades of Green The Gardening Man When I Get up From my Chair Behold my Bold Provider To Make a Whale The Insects' Anthem The Beach Lovers Happy Families Jim A Slight Howsyourfather Who's Had My Scissors The Policeman I Don't Like That Not Cricket Once I was a Looker and so was my Spouse The Swimming Song Don't Start! Aerobics All Dust and Rubble I am a Witney Blanket The Railway Carriage Couple Heaps of Stuff Please Will You Take Your Children Home Before I Do Them In Goodwill to Men: Give Us your Money The Slimming Poem Puddings - A Slice of Nostalgia The Dreadful Accident with the Kitchen Scissors Where There's a Will O Don't Sell Our Edgar No More Violins I Don't Want to Go to School Mum After the Jubilee Little Nigel Gnasher The Car Wash Black and Blues The Flit Gun Eat, Drink and Be Sick Take Me Back to Old Littlehampton Heart-Stopping Romance The Harvest Hymn Love Is Like a Curry Cling to Me Nigel Plughole Serenade Mary Boggis Clark Like You Would I Fell For a Black and White Minstrel Will Anybody Marry Me? A Tale of Two Settees This and That The Ballad of The Bungleclud John Joe Polonio Dump It! Tiger, Tiger Building Sites Bite! The Animal Kingdom Fleeced How God Made the Duck-Billed Platypus I'm a Starling . . . me Darling The Rat Resuscitation Rhyme In Defence of Hedgehogs The Battery Hen The Hegg Pam Ayres and the Embarrassing Experience with the Parrot The Stuffed Horse Puppy Problems Clamp the Mighty Limpet The Bunny Poem The Wasp he is a Nasty One A Card Through the Door Good Luck in Your Exam Get Well Soon On Your Wedding As You Retire Travel No Alarm on the Flight Deck Ayers Rock Hello Australia, Hello! Lost in Transit Hello Long Distance, Is That You? Progress The Unisex Salon The Curlers Poem The Frogmarch I am a Cunnin' Vending Machine Walk with me for a Perch and a Rood A-Z The Patter of Tiny Feet The Pregnancy Poem Mirror Song Where Did You Get . . . Whose Toes Are Those? Pat-a-cake Poor Dad Nanny Baby's Dinner Time Wayne Coping Foghorn Lullaby Introduction In this book I would like to offer you a selection of the noble works. Some of these date from about 1974 when I was writing pieces like "The Battery Hen" and "I wish I'd Looked After me Teeth". At that time I was working for a company which bought bits to go inside car heaters. As you can imagine this was a fascinating and deeply fulfilling job, shot through with suspense and excitement. I worked in a long, thin office where people tended to walk sideways. Through the window you could thrill to the view of two gasometers ponderously rising and falling during the course of the day. Writing the poems came as a welcome relief. I started performing those poems and a few ill-chosen songs ("Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye", "My Soldier Boy Wears a Blue Cockade") at our local folk club at The Bell Inn in the vi lage of Ducklington. I remember the disbelief I felt when I was offered œ12 to do a guest spot at a pub called The Railwayman's Arms up near Nether Heyford. I only had to do half-an-hour and at the time I was earning œ20 a week! I recall driving up there, white with terror, my guitar on the back seat. Years later I played famous places like The London Palladium and The Sydney Opera House, but I was never quite so nervous as on that night at The Railwayman's Arms. Well, then I was befriended by BBC Radio Oxford. Folk music was more popular then and Radio Oxford used to send people around recording choice bits at local clubs for their weekly programme. They must have come to The Bell on a good night when I was not singing "My Soldier Boy Wears a Blue Cockade" because they decided that some of my pieces were choice and that started a very happy relationship during which I had a weekly spot on the radio. I always say to people who write verse and are looking for a market that the local radio is worth a try. BBC Radio Oxford were very helpful to me. The first time I sat in front of a TV camera was in 1975 at Thames Television. The programme was a talent show called Opportunity Knocks and I was sandwiched between a man who sang "You are my Heart's Delight" and a woman who played the squeeze box. It was a very terrifying experience, especially as the bus bringing my family had got lost on the way and I desperately wanted them in the audience. The bus in question was emblazoned with the legend "Crapper's Coaches" down the side so it was easy to spot. Anyway all was well and I won. I seemed to get a lot of work after that, though I felt poorly qualified for it. It was one thing to proclaim to a cider-mellowed group of mates in Ducklington Folk Club, and another to be thrust out in front of two thousand people who had paid good money in some vast hall in Wolverhampton. My main recollection is of being absolutely terrified of the next job. At about that time I wrote two pieces I was especially pleased with. They were "Thoughts of a Late Night Knitter", and "The Ballad of Bill Spinks' Bedstead". I've never been at all interested in writing topical things, you know, something pointed about the politicians of the day. It takes just as long to do but has a very short life indeed. I was always pleased with "I Wish I'd Looked After me Teeth" as a choice of subject and I think it is likely to tickle people for as long as we chew sweets and fear the dentist's drill. In fact I like writing about people most of all. I think there is a huge amount of humour in our small human failings and in the way we try to justify our actions and hang on to our dignity. I love the great disparity between the way a man might see himself compared with the way others see him. After I got married and had our two sons, I felt as if the real world had opened up. I think children are a great leveller and I can see now how squeamish I was before. I was preoccupied with what to wear and what I looked like. Previously, I claimed that I couldn't watch young children eating because the way they ended up with food all round their faces turned my delicate stomach. However, pregnancy, birth, sleepless nights, three month colic and a baby given to robust milky burps punctured all this pompous twaddle. My mother said, "We all have to come to it" and I came to it. What I also came to, by marrying and having children, was a new world to write about. Family life has always seemed to me to be a rich picking-ground. "Once I was a Looker and so was my Spouse" came from this time and "Don't Start!" about the way we talk to our children. I think there is more real humour to be found in family life than in any elaborately constructed gag. More recently I've been writing about our gallant attempts to fight off ageing as in "Do you Think Bruce Springsteen Would Fancy me?" People ask me if I'm afraid of running out of ideas but I'm not, no, because I've always written as a sort of commentary on what I see, almost like a diary. I can't imagine losing that inclination, having had it for so long. Sometimes people ask me if I'm from a theatrical family. My uncle Les used to "play the mouth organ beautiful" so I'm told, and my brother Allan did have a brief dalliance with a trumpet at the time when Eddie Calvert's gut-wrenching "Oh my Papa" was all the rage. Unfortunately, the early morning practice sessions were too much for our own Papa who emerged from his bedroom one morning, eyes white with the light of battle, and wrested it from his grip. He gave up the trumpet from a sense of self-preservation. So I think, on reflection, that I'm not from a theatrical family, no. People ask me if I think of myself as a poet and the answer is no, I don't. I call them poems because it's simple, it trips off the tongue, Pam's poems. It's cleaner than Pam's rhymes or Pam's comic verses. Poetry seems to be a very serious and profound business, and I was essentially looking for something to make people laugh. So if it's not poetry, what is it? Well, I think it's to do with the music hall tradition we have in this country. I have a large and much-loved collection of music hall pieces and I feel a great sense of identity when I look through them. True, most of my pieces are not songs but the feel is there, the sense of fun, the pleasant shuffling of words to get a comic effect. I would like to think I was in that tradition. I hope you enjoy this book. I never actually wrote these pieces to be read in silence, but always to be proclaimed out loud, with gusto. I hope if you have any favourites, that they are included and I hope they make you laugh, in which case I will be extremely happy. Pam Ayres 1992 HEROES Do You Think Bruce Springsteen Would Fancy Me? Do you think Bruce Springsteen would fancy me? I know I've just turned forty-three, And one eye's gone at a funny angle, And I have to wear a copper bangle, As I've got arthritis in this left knee, But d'you think Bruce Springsteen would fancy me? He might like an older bird, Someone not of the common herd, Old and inhibition free, Well he need look no further than me, I've lost the looks that once I had, But then perhaps his eyesight's bad, My skin's quite good, and me teeth - fantastic! Crafted from the finest plastic, So next weekend at the NEC, Do you think Bruce Springsteen would fancy me? He might like to dance with me, If I keep the weight off me gammy knee, But there again, me kneecaps click, Still, I needn't take me walking stick. No, I'd be like a magnet to him, The sight of me would go straight through him, One boss eye and me hair gone grey, Singing "Born in the USA". ÊÊurse, Bruce is used to admiration, He's idolised in every nation, Cheered and clapped in every state, Me? I'm clapped at half past eight. Me husband says I must be mad, And didn't I know Bruce Springsteen had Teenage bimbos wall to wall, Young and slim and brown and tall, They can dance and stay up late, Their knees don't click and their eyes go straight, He says Bruce wants rock and rhythm, Not some old bird's rheumatism. But I don't care, I know I'm right, At the NEC next Friday night, Though there might be thousands there, Our eyes will meet in a thrilling stare, I'll do me slow seductive grin, I hope to God me teeth stay in, And in that flash of recognition, Bruce and I will have . . . ignition. Draw the veil on he and I, Alone against the starlit sky, The billows pound upon the shore, And me clicking knee will be heard . . . no more. The Ballad of Bill Spinks' Bedstead Bill Spinks gazed round his bedroom From the ceiling to the floor, To the ancient bullfight poster With him as the matador. And something was amiss That he could not put into words But in simple language it was this: He didn't get the birds. He supposed his furniture Would never fill a bird with joy: The bedside cupboard cobbled up In "Woodwork" as a boy; And flapping at the window Was a tired bit of chintz, And round the light switch on the wall Were dirty fingerprints. Bill Spinks, propped up with pillows, Gazed about in deep depression - The bed was half the trouble It gave such a bad impression. You could try no acrobatics here And if by chance you should The springs played such a melody It woke the neighbour hood It had no padded headboard - This was wooden, from his mother. It was eighteen inches high one "side And two foot on the other. The rocky, floc ky mattress Though its origins were dim Had crippled seven generations And was hard at work on him! So Bill Spinks formed a plan He went methodically about it: He wrote himself a shopping list Got up and went without it. But if he had remembered it The first instruction read: Cash your National Savings And buy yourself a bed! He stepped into the shop He had his breakfast in his hand, It was a mutton sandwich Tied up with a rubber band. And there he bought a bed Which was fantastic beyond words: A bed to revolutionise his life (and get the birds!). Oh, but what a bed it was Upholstered all in damson suede, And when you pressed a button All the quadrasonics played, And set into the headboard Ringed in chromium and cork A clock told you the time In Bulawayo and New York. It had an Operations Centre With a neon-lit console With a 'phone correctly placed To get your finger in the hole. A button for the video, And if you pressed another It made a cup of tea And showed a picture of your mother. If you pulled a hidden lever The electric lights all blinked And a rubber blow-up woman Stripped off all her clothes and winked. And in the dead of night If you should feel the need to go A claw came out from under And it offered you the po. So with the bed installed Bill Spinks went looking for a mate. The bed puffed up his ego Which had flagged so much of late. He went off down the disco And the atmosphere was nice With everybody spitting - And a few had thrown up twice. Yes, the Throttlers and the Wrenchers They were both on stage together, Punishing their instruments In glossy wet-look leather. But it was hard to tell Because they'd all got so entrenched Who was doing the throttling And who was getting wrenched! But he saw Ms Grippo Millet - She'd have been the best girl there If it wasn't for her face, her feet, Her figure and her hair. She was the most exquisite creature Bill Spinks had ever seen: Half her hair was purple And the other half was green. And he danced with Grippo Millet From the moment that they met While the Wrenchers' and the Throttlers' music grew more frenzied yet. And Bill Spinks said, "Oh Grippo! Come with me and spend the night," And Grippo Millet said, "I'm not like that you know . . . All right." Meanwhile in Bill Spinks' house The bed was silent and aggrieved. This was not the kind of setting For which it had been conceived. The rain blew in the window And it pattered on the suede And the bed thought of the showroom And it wished it could have stayed. It could hear Bill Spinks and Grippo, As they carried on below - The bed sensed what was coming next And didn't want to know. But luckily it had Beneath the damson suede protection A 90-horsepower engine With twin carbs and fuel injection. Now Bill had coaxed his Grippo To the bottom of the stair And his hands were turning purple As he rubbed them through her hair, And just as Grippo Millet Was responding to his touch A sound came from above them As the bed let in the clutch! Well it was weary to the mattress Of the mean and dingy view, So it slapped itself in gear And went to look for somewhere new. It stunned Bill Spinks in passing With a po jab from the right And with all the covers flapping Disappeared into the night. Grippo watched the apparition "What the hell was that?" she said, Bill Spinks, his head still ringing, Said, "I think it was me bed." So she stayed to comfort Bill Because he seemed at such a loss And the bed has found a lovely home In a house outside Kings Cross. Jones, the Invisible Man of the Third Jones of the Third was not sporty at all, He was poorly adapted for kicking a ball, No study of maths irresistibly drew him And transitive verbs were a mystery to him, The French mistress did not succumb to his charm In Woodwork he planed all the skin off his arm Girls didn't like him or think he was nice, Didn't look once, never mind about twice. The choir didn't want him, he knew that for sure, He'd warbled a psalm but they'd shown him the door So while those around him to glory were spurred He remained the invisible man of the Third. In Pottery, Jones thought his moment had come Such a pot did he make that the tutor was dumb It was huge, all artistically gilded and caked But alas it exploded while still being baked. One morning however when light in the heart He arrived feeling kindly disposed towards Art He painted a picture, and thought it was good, Of a field and a tree and a cow and a wood. The Art Master came, picked it up, put it down Saying "Excellent work, I commend you young .... Brown." And Jones found himself in the heady position Of having work sent for the Art Exhibition. And when the day came and he went to the hall And saw his framed picture up there on the wall Well, he stopped being Jones of no obvious charm, Jones, who had planed all the skin off his arm, Jones, never noble heroic or brave Giving no indication of needing to shave, Jones who the girls never looked at at all, or Jones who was useless at kicking a ball. He was Jones, of the Third, recognised and acclaimed Mentioned wherever True Artists were named, Who greeted the Head with a nonchalant wave Who any day now would be needing to shave, Who, handsome and charming would sweep through the town Brushing the girls from the hem of his gown The first in a long and time honoured tradition Of having work shown - in the Art Exhibition. Paul O'Chatberg Grogan He was Paul O'Chatberg Grogan, He was manly, he was lean, The sun had bleached his hair And it was thick and it was clean, His eyes were cold as chisels, Far too blue for any man, And when he gazed on women Well, they clutched their drawers and ran. He was Paul O'Chatberg Grogan Of the long athletic stride, With long athletic arms All down his long athletic side, With long athletic legs; And those that knew the family well Said he had a long athletic History as well. He was Paul O'Chatberg Grogan, He could ride and he could hunt, And when he was at Cambridge He was mustard with a punt. He could speak in any language The world had ever known, And when he got fed up with that He wrote one of his own. He was a demon on the squash court, And a tyrant in the gym; He had a spotted belt in judo (They'd invented it for him). And when he hit a cricket ball The sound was like no other's, For the bat disintegrated And he had to use his brother's. Oh his gaze was always level, His chin was always square, His voice was always even And his teeth were always . . . there. He drove a Maserati, The fastest he could find And a little string of broken hearts All flopped along behind. A Countess shared his life - From Spain, with eyes as black as coals. They jetted round the world With him relaxed at the controls. And she had hair like ebony, And she had skin like gold With hands that felt like butterflies And feet that felt the cold. And she had feather pillows And she had satin sheets, And Paul O'Chatberg Grogan Could perform amazing feats. The feats he could perform Cannot be decently revealed, But a chicken house collapsed, A mile away out in a field! Here lies Paul O'Chatberg Grogan, He is never coming back, His reflection was so gorgeous That he had a heart attack. The lonely Maserati Is silent on the grass, And broken hearts jump up And dash themselves against the glass. The Old Gloucester Sausage Of all the counties and the shires so varied and so wide, Each one has some local dish they speak about with pride, Roly poly pudding, Bara brith or Bacon Clanger, But those in Gloucestershire need only mention their own banger. It's the old Gloucester sausage, that'll make you smack your chops, And in its manufacture they have pulled out all the stops, A great majestic sausage with a great majestic name, And beside it any other sausage hangs its head with shame. Oh, the old Gloucester sausage, that's a meal for any man, You can tell the way it sits up proud and noble in the pan, You can keep your Cornish pastie, you can have your sausage roll, But an old Gloucester sausage with its skin as black as coal, Well! Can anyone imagine any nicer sight than that? To stab it with your pocket knife and see that squirt of fat, To drop it in the frying pan, to push it to the front, And on a winter's morning you can hear the beggar grunt. Oh the old Gloucester sausage, that'll give your life a spark, Granny had a spasm when she grabbed one in the dark, Grandad he had eaten one the night he said "Be mine!" And though his eyes grew dim his whiskers never failed to shine. The old Gloucester sausage, fully stuffed in every part, The final great achievement of the sausage stuffer's art, Bursting at the seams with healthy meat and fat and gristle, Cereal and rusk and even little tufts of bristle. Oh the old Gloucester sausage, it's a masterpiece it's true, You can grill it, you can fry it, you can stick it up the flue, You can jab it, you can prick it, or for something even rougher, You can hit it with a frying pan pin and really make it suffer. Let the gourmet gabble, only other gourmets listen, Never on his fork will any Gloucester sausage glisten, Never will he hear it sizzle, prick it fore and aft, And stick it down the skirting board to counteract the draught. Oh the old Gloucester sausage, that'll make the weak the strong, The old Gloucester sausage, that'll make the short the long, The old Gloucester sausage that'd melt a heart of stone, A pound of them and you could plough the parish on your own. So when your sturdy son sets out upon his daily round, His mighty hobnails ringing on the cold and frosty ground, Be contented Missis as you bid your lad good day, For an old Gloucester sausage is behind him, all the way. The Voice at the Foot of the Stairs It's twenty-five past seven boys, I've boiled you both an egg, Up you get then! Rise and shine! Let's have you! Shake a leg! Twenty-five past seven! Breakfast's ready! Don't all flock! (I used to be important, Now I'm just the speaking clock.) It's five to eight! It's five to eight, You've cut it very fine! I see you've combed your hair, It's stuck up like a porcupine. Have you washed your hands? That looks suspiciously like dirt, Pass the milk, look out, too late! It's all gone down his shirt. Let go of the cereal! You'll have it on the floor! Does it really matter That he had the toy before? Here's your football boot! It's where you left it Friday night, It's got no studs or laces, But the rest of it's all right. Have you fed the rabbit? The goldfish does look queer. You gave him too much breakfast! Still, I s'pose the tank will clear, Hurry up then boys, Because its nearly time to leave, D'you want a handkerchief? Or can you manage with your sleeve? Does anybody want to go Who's not already been? Then brush your face and wash your teeth, It's nearly eight-fifteen. Why can't you lace your trainer? Try not to lose control, You've lost the pointed bit That helps to push it through the hole. Now put your shoes on properly, And don't stand on the backs! HE DOES'NT WANT A RUGBY TACKLE! Calm down and relax, He's looking for his other shoe, his homework and his coat, And he'd find them quicker still without you clinging to his throat. Oh. You're finishing your homework. I don't believe its true, You should have done it yesterday! It's twenty minutes to! Who was in the basket? How am I supposed to know? Moses? John the Baptist? Or the bull rush I dunno. Hurry, here's the bus! It's ten to nine, right on the dot, Off you go, bye bye, See you tonight, don't pick your spot. Do stop aggravating him! I saw you throw that punch! Bye! Mind how you go! And by the way . . . You've left your lunch . . . Sling Another Chair Leg on the Fire, Mother Sling another chair leg on the fire, Mother, Pull your orange box up to the blaze, Hold your poor old mittens out and warm them In these inflationary days. Sink your teeth into that dripping sandwich, Flick the telly on to channel nine, And if we get the sound without the picture, Well, I'll kick it in the kidneys, one more time. Come with me out to the empty garage, We haven't been there for a week or more, We'll bow our heads and gaze in silent homage At the spots of oil upon the floor. We'll think of when we had a motor car there, Which used to take us out in rain or shine, Before the price of petrol went beyond us, And well make believe we kept it, one more time. Fling another sausage in the pan, Mother! We'll laugh away our worries and our cares, But we'll never get a doctor after hours, Mother, So for God's sake don't go falling down the stairs. Toss another lentil in the soup, Mother! And serve it up before the News at nine, And if the GPO detector spots us, Make believe we've got a licence, one more time. There was a time we'd booked up for Ibiza, We'd bought the suntan lotion and the clothes, But we never got beyond the travel agent, 'Cause Court Line organised the one we chose. So knock the clouds of dust from off the brochure, Wipe the 40 watt bulb free of grime, Turn the dog-eared pages to Ibiza, And we'll make believe we got there, one more time. Pass me the hatchet and the axe, Mother! Wipe away that sad and anxious frown, What with these inflationary spirals, It's nice to see the table falling down. Your poor old shins will soon be good and mottled, Once the flames get round that teak veneer, And in the ring of warm and dancing firelight, We'll smile and wish each other: Happy New Year. The Spot Welder's Dream I wish I was a pop star, Colourful and brash, With me ear oles full of crochets And me wallet full of cash. To hide me bit of acne I'll stick sequins on me face, Then I can do the vocals And you can do the base. Yeah. I can do the vocals, But to whip them to a frenzy, Seated at the organ, We'll have rockin' Bert McKenzie. Now Bert's a lovely mover But he tends to be a dunce, When he's winking at the boppers, He shuts both eyes at once. I'll buy a cossack shirt Split to the waist, in peacock red, So me face will get them going And me chest will knock them dead. I'll wave me great long legs about And wrap them round the mike. I had a practice Saturday, But I fell off me bike. I'll get me self an agent And a manager and all, A bloke to drive the minibus, And one to book the hall, A musical arranger, And a private record plugger, So when we're in the charts, Well, we shall all feel that much smugger. And when we're doing a stand, I'll come up quiet, to the mike, I'll stick me pelvis out, And say, "Right on . . ." suggestive like. I'll drive the women crazy, They'll be in such a state. And they'll scratch each other's eyes out, Once I've had me teeth put straight. Farewell Cradlley Heath! We're out upon the road to fame. Farewell factory gates! We're going to be a Household Name. Good riddance Welding Shop, And factory hooter every morn, For it's me and Bert McKenzie, A Superstar is born. Clive the Fearless Birdman Clive the fearless birdman was convinced that he could fly, At night he lay in bed and dreamed of soaring through the sky Of winging through the clouds, of gliding far out into space And he had a leather helmet with a beak stuck on the face. Clive the fearless birdman had a wife who did not care, For his fly by night ambition of cavorting through the air, With mockery and ridicule she did her best to kill it, And cruelly filled his breakfast plate with cuttlefish and millet. But in his little potting shed he'd built some mighty wings, Out of balsa wood and sticky tape and plasticine and strings, Up to his neck in feathers which had taken months to pluck He laboured with his Evo-Stick, he fashioned and he stuck. He tried it on at last and slowly turned from side to side So wonderful was it that Clive the birdman slumped and cried, So shiny were the feathers all in silver grey and black, With eiderdown all up the front and turkey down the back. It strapped on with a harness buckled round his arms and throat, All made adjustable to fit the thickness of his coat, Just to see him walking down the street made women shriek As he flapped by in his harness and his helmet and his beak. So Clive announced to all the culmination of his search And told the local papers he'd be jumping off the church. Seth the old gravedigger with his face as black as coal Said "If he jumps off the steeple I shall't have to dig a hole." And so the day arrived and all the people came to stare. Police held back the crowds and all the local press were there. Clive read out a noble speech, an address to the people That nobody could hear for it was windy up the steeple. He stepped out in the sky and flapped his wings just for a minute, Far above the vicar's garden as he plummeted straight in it. He lay there in the cabbages without another flutter And the beak came off his helmet and went rolling in the gutter. But far away in Heaven Clive the birdman reigns supreme Soaring through the air without the aid of jet or steam So at the Pearly Gates if it's with Clive you wish to speak You can tell him by his harness and his helmet and his beak. Nted Sails in the Sunset Don't play me them nostalgic ballads, Eunice, You know it breaks my aching heart in two, You know it makes me think of darling' Neddy And how such men are far between . . . and few. I still can see him standing on the quay side In his uniform and all, he looked so grand With gold braid gleaming all around his helmet And a Cornish pastie steaming in his hand. "Goodbye my love!" he cried, his throat constricted, "You are my comfort and my sustenance!" He faltered and I thought emotion choked him But he'd tried to eat the pastie all at once. I held him and beseeched him, "Sail in safety! Journey through the darkness to the light! May Providence protect your tattered rigging And hold your rudder steady in the night!" He turned to board the craft, my heart was aching, Crying, "Ned . . . shall I never see you more?" But he brushed away the salt spray from his eyebrow And resolutely shut the cabin door. I watched his boat sail off into the sunset, A thousand violins began to play, And I thought I saw an old tomato sandwich Tossing back and forth among the spray. A mile off shore the fog came down to shroud him It hid the Channel ferry from his view, It sliced his boat in half, the back and front end And Ned was standing in between the two. They sent the air-sea rescue out to find him But just a Cornish pastie stayed afloat. Don't play me them nostalgic ballads Eunice For Ned and I are severed . . . like his boat. TRAGEDIES The Neglected Wife's Valentine Won't someone send me a Valentine to make my husband jealous? Something big and gaudy, altogether over-zealous, Write upon it "Pam, my heart stands still when you walk past . . ." And when my husband sees it, he might notice me at last. Oh write me something torrid, like "I'm burning with desire! Meet me in Mustique before me underclothes catch fire!" My husband will be staggered, he will read it like a book, And think "Well, someone fancies her, I'll have another look!" Go on, write me something saucy, so my husband will be miffed, Like "You won't need your pyjamas, if you kind of . . . get my drift." I'll leave it on the mantelpiece and when he rushes through, He'll read it and then next year he might think to send one too. The Horse's Farewell to his Cowboy Farewell to you cowboy, my day it is done, Of rounding up cows in the heat of the sun, Of roping the dogies and branding the steer, And having your gun going off in my ear. I galloped the prairie without any thanks, Your great silver spurs in my bony old flanks, And I've seen many things in my life it is true, But never a cowboy more stupid than you. Chorus: Cowboy can you hear me inside the saloon? I'm waiting out here in the light of the moon, My hardworking days they are past and gone by, And I'm bound for the great clover field in the sky. Farewell to the feel of your filthy old jeans, Farewell to the smell of your coffee and beans, Farewell to you in your stetson and chaps, Cheating at poker and shooting the craps. You rode me too fast and you rode me too far Mile after mile of you shouting "Yee harl" Hounded by outlaws away down the track, With a gun on my tail and a berk on my back. I never remember you treating me right, I was tied to a cactus and hungry all night, When I was weary and dying of thirst, I always knew it was you who came first, Well maybe you are mighty quick on the draw, But cowboy you're slow with the fodder and straw, Look at me pardner, I'm all skin and bone, So tonight I ride into the sunset . . . alone. He'll have a shock when he comes out of there Me, with four legs sticking up in the air, Don't say goodbye or thanks for the ride, My friend it's too little, too late. I have died. Won't somebody lift up the old saddle flaps, And gently unbuckle the filthy old straps, My eyes have grown weary, I'm tired of talk, And as from tonight, he can bloody well walk. I wrote this for a TV programme on adult literacy. It's about those ma dining times when you just can't think of the right word. Nice You see, I've always liked him and last night he took me out, I'm just a normal girl you see but him, he's been about, He took me to the pictures and it didn't half cost a price, So I want to write and tell him that I found it really . . . nice. Oh he took me to the pictures, it was brilliant and then, Well you see the point is this, well I should like to go again, So I thought I'd write a note, Oh can you give me some advice, To try and get it over that I think he's really . . . nice. I don't want to look too forward, I don't want to look too fast, I don't want the first time out with him to also be the last, He took me for a Chinese meal, for crispy duck with rice, And we had banana fritters. Oh it was, Oh it was . . . nice. He took me home that evening, it was dark and it was late, When I got in I really felt I'd like to celebrate, He was all I hankered for, the time had vanished in a trice, And I couldn't get to sleep because it all had been so . . . nice. I just want to write and thank him but I don't know what to say, I can't put what I feel, it all comes out a different way, Well it's stupid, what I've written, this is why I need advice, It says: "Thanks for Friday evening, I enjoyed it. It was . . . nice." Robbie Burns was apparently a devilishly handsome man. He had extraordinary dark shining eyes and women found him extremely attractive. On Comparing my Husband to Robbie Burns Oh oft I think of Robbie Burns, Striding through the heather, All manly clad in tartan plaid To spurn the Highland weather, O'er loch and glen, that man of men, His black eyes all a-flashing Could any heart not leap, and start, Or fail to find him dashing? Oh oft I think of Robbie Burns, His dirk thrust in his gaiters, And then I think of you dear, And go home and peel the taters. Oh, I Wish I'd Looked After Me Teeth Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth, And spotted the perils beneath All the toffees I chewed, And the sweet sticky food. Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth. I wish I'd been that much more willin' When I had more tooth there than fillin' To give up gob stoppers From respect to me choppers, And to buy something else with me shillin'. When I think of the lollies I licked And the liquorice all sorts I picked, Sherbet dabs, big and little, All that hard peanut brittle, My conscience gets horribly pricked. My mother, she told me no end, "If you got a tooth, you got a friend." I was young then, and careless, My toothbrush was hairless, I never had much time to spend. Oh I showed them the toothpaste all right, I flashed it about late at night, But up-and-down brushin' And pokin' and fussin' Didn't seem worth the time - I could bite! If I'd known I was paving the way To cavities, caps and decay, The murder of fillin's, Injections and drillin's, I'd have thrown all me sherbet away. So I lay in the old dentist's chair, And I gaze up his nose in despair, And his drill it do whine In these molars of mine. "Two amalgam," he'll say, "for in there." How I laughed at my mother's false teeth, As they foamed in the waters beneath. But now comes the reckonin' It's me they are beckonin' Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth. The Exiled Gum Don't water me no more my friend, Don't water me no more. I am an exiled Eucalypt Far from my native shore. If I'd have been in Sydney I might have made a show, But I've been sent to England And I ain't going to grow. Don't stand me on the window sill And pluck out every weed, Don't sprinkle me with potash To germinate me seed. Me little heart is broken My country was my all If I can't sprout where the kookaburras shout Well, I don't want to sprout at all. I'll never feel the rolling paddy melons Bump me trunk, I'll never probe the stubbies there And get a little drunk. Not for me the Tasman Sea To watch the breakers roll For I am in the window In a tasteful copper bowl. And a gum tree's heart's so fearless He must face the searing drought, But in this English sitting room There's not much drought about. And of the raging bush fires I do not see a lot Except for when her husband Stubs his fag out in me pot! I need Australian sunshine, I need the blistering heat, A wedge tailed eagle on me head And a wombat at me feet. I want to grow where Mother stood I want to be there too. Oh Mother dear, where are you now? Gone for a canoe. Farewell you noble eucalypts Our roots shall the'er entwine Underneath Australia, For they have potted mine. Me little shoot has wilted But it's facing to the east Good sailing, dearest Mother From the exiled gum, deceased. Miss Grundy and the Grand Hotel Miss Grundy ran the Grand Hotel She called it grand but you couldn't tell For it was very dark and drear And dust stood thick on the chandelier. The carpets once so plush and fine Were full of holes and dust and wine And the wallpaper embossed and plain Had rolled itself back up again. No music flowed in the marble halls, No Gala Nights, Midsummer Balls, Since the Town and Country Planner Tipped his beer down the old pianner. No smile ever cracked the receptionist's face But the smell of her nail polish oozed through the place And, mixed with the fragrance of frying, it rose To deal the hotel guests a punch on the nose. Soon however the plot of land Next door to the crumbling Grand Came up for sale and folks heard tell That there were new plans for a new hotel. Miss Grundy didn't care a jot But sniffed, "My regulars I've got. They'd never dream of leaving here They pay through the nose for the atmosphere!" But they watched with wary eyes As the new hotel blocked out the skies. The receptionist, afire with dread, Changed her nails from pink to red. Not only had it H & C, All mod cons and colour TV, But taking shape along the corner Was a brand new swimming pool . . . and sauna! Miss Grundy, deciding to put up a fight, Took a broom to the chandelier one night And so that people could get up late Didn't stop breakfast till quarter to eight. To enable the music and dancing to start She stood up one night and sang "Heart of my Heart", She hung up pictures of Highland cattle Miss Grundy alas fought a losing battle. For the guests at the Grand Hotel saw the light And all tunnelled out under cover of night Under the room where Miss Grundy snored, Where the mousetraps guarded the skirting board, Into the warmth of the one next door, The swimming pool and the carpet floor, While outside stirring in the chilly breeze Miss Grundy's sign read "Vacancies". Sam and the Paraffin Man Sam came home one evening, The same as all his life, To find the paraffin man Had absconded with his wife. Her coat from off the hanger And her bootees from the stair Had vanished, disappeared, And furthermore, they were not there. He came in through the kitchen, The place was cold and still. He tiptoed up the stairs, In case his missis might be ill But nagging doubts they gathered, Till what really did him in Was, all across the landiing, He could smell the paraffin. He took his knuckle duster And he pressed it on his fist, He also took a brick In case the knuckle duster missed. He set off down the darkened road, Towards the caravan Where he believed his missis She was with another man. "Oh, the paraffin man, is it?" Muttered Sam at every stride. A little bird had told him How the lorry stayed outside, How all the neighbours down the street Joined in the fun and games, And said with all that oil, Sam's house might well burst into flames. He came upon the caravan, His temper running riot, But even he had to agree The place was very quiet. But then it quickly dawned on Sam, This silence was a trick! So he rushed up to the fanlight And he hit it with a brick. "Come out here with my missis!" He bellowed at the door. "I've heard about your lorry, Parked outside two hours and more." The caravan door opened To reveal a woman's head, And then a woman's nightdress, For she'd just got out of bed. She said, "I'm not the paraffin man, But I am one of his daughters. You look so worried, Sam, Can I pour oil on troubled waters?" She beckoned in the caravan And Sam stepped up so quick. Enraptured by her beauty, He forgot to drop the brick. Now unbeknown to Sam, His faithless wife, she had not fled, But with the paraffin man, She was hiding in his shed. She crept up to the window, Though she had to kneel and crouch, And saw her husband Samuel Suffocating on the couch. She took a pail of water And she flung it in the door, Just for to cool his ardour, Only that and nothing more. Too late she realised That it was paraffin she threw, And they all went up to Heaven On a cloud of Esso Blue. But on a winter's evening, If your feet are less than quick, You might smell an oily fragrance, You might see a ghostly wick, You might hear the distant rumble Of a passing caravan, For things that passion can't ignite, Paraffin can. I am a Dry Stone Waller I am a Dry Stone Waller, All day I Dry Stone Wall. Of all appalling callings, Dry Stone Walling's Worst of all. Not you, Basil Basil he loved Ethel, In his heart there burned a flame. Every night he gripped the sheets And whispered Ethel's name, He saw her every morning And the breath caught in his throat. He loved her in her summer dress And in her winter coat. Each night the lovely Ethel, She came to him in a dream, And lay reclining in the boat He rowed them in, upstream. Her hand trailed in the water And she was a wondrous sight, Saying, "Basil! I can wait no more! Take me, tonight!" But his love was unrequited. When he saw her every day, She only said, "How do," And hurried past him on her way To catch the bus to work, Where every day from morn to eve She gazed out of the window, Thinking of her true love, Steve. Now Steve he ran a scrap yard Once a week he knocked the door And Ethel, she would open it, Saying, "I know what you've come for! Your rag and bones!" she cried, "And here they are, in this here sack," And she'd watch with heart a-flutter, As he heaved them on his back. She never thought of Basil, Never knew that he was there. From morn to eve, she thought of Steve, Her fingers, in his hair. For Steve was rugged, like an oak, While Basil, like a skittle, Had no physique, of which to speak, His muscles, they was little. But his ardour never cooled And to himself he sadly said, "If Ethel does not love me, Why, I'd just as soon be dead. I'll knock upon her door, And say `I love you`" and forsooth, She can either take or leave me, But at least I'll know the truth." So he knocked upon her door And when she answered, he began: "I know someone that you could make A Very Happy Man." Ethel gripped the doorpost, "Is it Steve? Oh can it be?" And Basil, looking at her, He said, "No, you fool, it's me." She said, "Oh not you, Basil. I thought you'd come on Steve's behalf, As though he'd see, a girl like me." (She laughed a tragic laugh. ) She said, "I interrupted you, What were you going to say?" And Basil said, "Don't matter," And he coldly walked away. Back in his house he primed his gun And placed it to his head, "I die for Ethel, though my deatht'll Grieve her not," he said. He strained to press the trigger, But his courage upped and fled, So he rushed out in the garden And he shot the cat instead. Little Lawrence Greenaway Little Lawrence Greenaway, He tended to digress. He'd always tell you rather more Instead of rather less. Of wild exaggeration He was never known to tire, The facts became irrelevant, In short, he was a liar. He said, "I'm in computers, You name the sort, we've gottem," Whereas in fact he only Screwed the castors on the bottom. His claims they grew preposterous, He couldn't understand Why all of his companions, Well, they laughed behind their hands. One awful Monday morning, He was sitting on the train, He saw a great red-headed man Come rushing down the lane. Just as the train was leaving, The man wrenched at the door And stood above the passengers, A mighty six foot four. He opened up his great big mouth And with a ghastly shout, Hollered, "Somewhere on this train's The bloke who took my Missis out!" Lawrence he was frightened, Like a frightened rabbit, But he still said, "It was me," You see, just through force of habit. The great big man, he picked him up Underneath the throat, And helped him off the train, Without returning for his coat. With his head locked in a headlock He was rushed off down the lane, And little Lawrence Greenaway, Was never seen again. The Dolly on the Dustcart I'm the dolly on the dust cart I can see you're not impressed, I'm fixed above the driver's cab, With wire across me chest, The dustman see, he noticed me, Going in the grinder, And he fixed me on the lorry, I dunno if that was kinder. This used to be a lovely dress, In pink and pretty shades, But it's torn now, being on the cart, And black as the ace of spades, There's dirt all round me face, And all across me rosy cheeks, Well, I've had me head thrown back, But we ain't had no rain for weeks. I used to be a "Mama" doll, Tipped forward, I'd say, "Mum", But the rain got in me squeaker, And now I've been struck dumb, I had two lovely blue eyes, But out in the wind and weather, One's sunk back in me head like, And one's gone altogether. I'm not a soft, flesh coloured dolly, Modern children like so much, I'm one of those hard old dollies, What are very cold to touch, Modern dolly's underwear, Leaves me a bit nonplussed, I haven't got a bra, But then I haven't got a bust! But I was happy in that doll's house, I was happy as a Queen, I never knew that Tiny Tears, Was coming on the scene, I heard of dolls with hair that grew, And I was quite enthralled, Until I realised my head Was hard and pink . . . and bald. So I travel with the rubbish, Out of fashion, out of style, Out of me environment, For mile after mile, No longer prized . . . dustbinised! Unfeminine, Untidy, I'm the dolly on the dust cart And there's no collection Friday. I Am Going to Kill My Husband I am going to kill my husband, I have stuck all I can stick, His constant criticising Is getting on my wick, He takes it all for granted, But tonight I can relax, For the minute he complains, I shall whop him with the axe. Yes, I'm going to kill my husband, I shall have him to be sure, He's never going to curse My navigation any more, I drive him to distraction When I read a map, I know, But tonight I'm going to drive him Where he didn't plan to go. So when he starts haranguing me Till I'm a nervous wreck, Shouts and spits and rages Till the veins swell in his neck, As he grabs the map from me There'll be no turning back, I will calmly reach behind me And I'll whop him with the jack. I mean. He gets a cold And I'm supposed to sympathise, And his sneezes shake the rafters And the tears roll from his eyes, He looks so woebegone, Just like the back end of a bus, And yet when I am ill He'll tell me not to make a fuss. It's true, he's got to go, You may not think I've got the right, But he snores you see and I should know I'm with him every night, With a horrifying steady rythm, Whistle, snore and snort, Well tonight he's going to stay asleep For longer than he thought. Your Honour I confess, That with a satisfying thwack, I hit him with the frying pan From seven paces back, The weapon was examined By the jury good and true, It was all made up of women, And they all said . . . "After you!" I'm The Dog Who Didn't Win a Prize I'm the dog who didn't win a prize. I didn't have the Most Appealing Eyes. All day in this heat, I've been standing on me feet With dogs of every other shape and size. I've been harshly disinfected, I've been scrubbed, I've been festooned in a towel and I've been rubbed; I've been mercilessly brushed, robbed of all me fleas and dust And now the judging's over: I've been snubbed! Was it for obedience I was hailed? As "Best Dog in the Show" was I regaled? O not on your Doggo life, pass me down the carving knife, I had one thing said about me - it was "FAILED". I never for a moment thought I'd fail. I thought at least I'd win "Waggiest Tail". But no certificate, rosette or commendation did I get - Nothing on a kennel door to nail. I am going in my kennel on my own. Thank you, no. I do not want a bone. Do not think you can console me with left-overs in my bowl Me pride is mortified - I want to be alone. I've heard it from the worldly and the wise: "Each dog has his day" they all advise, But I see to my grief and sorrow, my day must have been tomorrow! Oh I'm the dog who didn't win a prize! Arthur Dan Steely, the Novelty Act Arthur Dan Steely, the Novelty Act, Stood in the hallway: his cases were packed. He called to his wife saying, "Leave you I must"' And she clung to the door knob and laughed fit to bust. He straightened his shoulders and took up his case Taking a last look around the old place, He took in the dirt and the cracks and the holes And said, "When I come back I'll come in a Rolls." He opened the door and he walked down the street, And behind him his wife couldn't stand on her feet. She laughed and she laughed, she was tickled to death; And her face ran with tears and she gasped for her breath. But Arthur Dan Steely, the Novelty Act, Sat on a bus and his pride was intact, Mentally checking the props he had taken, His faith in his talent was firm and unshaken. They were holding auditions for Unusual Acts: Arthur Dan Steely had read all the facts. He signed at the Stage Door, then boldly beneath Wrote: Arthur Dan Steely for Tunes on the Teeth! Yes! It was true! It was his Act alone! He'd learnt all its foibles as each tooth had grown. Now, perfectly tuned from the north to the south They were like a whole orchestra packed in his mouth. There were singers and dancers and acrobats there And a director sat in a director's chair And Arthur Dan Steely he took off his 'mac And selected a dignified seat, at the back. The singers did sing and the acrobats leap And the director peacefully went off to sleep. And Arthur Dan Steely grew nervous and sat Patiently waiting and twisting his hat. At last the address system booming and cracked Said, "Arthur Dan Steely, the Novelty Act!" He took up the pencil and switched on the tape And walked on the stage with his mouth all agape. He graciously bowed to the people within And, to show them his instruments, flashed them a grin. He tuned up a bit in the way of great bands And everyone covered their mouths with their hands. Then the music began! It was just like a spur! He shot round the stage and his feet were a blur, Tapping above and tapping beneath And flakes of enamel, they shot off his teeth. The music was frenzied, he gave it his all! He gave them Scott Joplin and "After the Ball". The Director woke up and looked, it was odd For he covered his eyes up and said, "Oh, Good God!" He had just reached the point where, to give them a laugh, He bit that particular pencil in half When he stopped in his tracks. He was shocked and perplexed Oh, surely he hadn't heard someone shout "Next!" Yes he had! An assistant just waved him away, As he'd wave at a fly on a hot summer's day. And onto the stage came a juggling troupe, The Dinner Plate Whirlers from Old Guadeloupe. Arthur Dan Steely, his case on his lap, Sat on the omnibus taking a nap. The shiny black tyres, they whined underneath. But Arthur was shattered and so were his teeth. He trudged up his street in the fast fading light; His wife, who'd stopped laughing, said, "You're late tonight. I poured you a Guinness to drown all your sorrow - We'll just have to hope you're discovered tomorrow!" Dear Lord Lichfield Dear Lord Lichfield I am writing in despair, Like you, I'm a photographer of genius and flair, I know my subject thoroughly, I've studied hard and long, And I beg of you to tell me what it is I'm doing wrong. I recently selected, having waded through the hype, A sophisticated camera of the Instamatic type, With comprehensive settings, sunny, changeable or mist, And a leather-look device that lets you swing it from your wrist. I photographed the Queen as she drove past, I do not carp, I know Her Majesty was blurred but was the background ever sharp? I sent it to the Palace with my number and my name, And waited by the phone but no commission ever came. Then I thought I'd speciali se in birds of marsh and bog, Imagine my delight to see a heron on a log, I crept about it stealthily, I snapped it fore and aft, But it was plastic from the pet shop and the kids went nearly daft. My photographs are blighted and to cap it all this week, Another lot fell short of the perfection that I seek, With unexpected shadows and alarmingly, on some, An apparition almost like a monumental thumb. This summer, for a special treat, with no regard for cash, I sallied forth and bought myself an electronic flash, So all my subjects can relax and never have a shred Of doubt that on the photograph their eyes will all be red. Apertures and shutters are no mystery to me, I know my lens Lord Lichfield like you know your ABC With my extensive knowledge of all photographic lore, Frankly I'm amazed I haven't toppled you before. So maybe as you languish with a flunkey at your arm, You being a Lord of character and undisputed charm, In raising up a noble silver chalice to your lips, You'll recall your fellow cameraman and send a couple of tips. The Sea Shell Don'tee fret no more, my darling' Alice, Don'tee cry and sorrow, my old dear, Don'tee watch the lane for our son Arnold, Lost upon the sea this fourteen year. Let a smile play on your lips again, Alice, Fourteen years you've worn the widow's drab, And get your ear away from that great sea shell: Nobody hears the ocean in a crab. Oh No, I Got a Cold I am sitting on the sofa By the fire and staying in, Me head is free of comfort And me nose is free of skin. Me friends have run for cover, They have left me pale and sick With me pockets full of tissues And me nostrils full of Vick. That bloke in the telly adverts, He's supposed to have a cold. He has a swig of whatnot And he drops off, good as gold, His face like snowing harvest Slips into sweet repose. Well, I bet this tortured breathing Never whistled down his nose. I burnt me bit of dinner 'Cause I've lost me sense of smell But then, I couldn't taste it, So that worked out very well. I'd buy some, down the cafe But I know that at the till A voice from work will softly say, "I thought that you were ill." So I'm wrapped up in a blanket With me feet upon a stool. I've watched the telly programmes And the kids come home from school. But what I haven't watched for Is any sympathy, 'Cause all you ever get is: "Oh no, keep away from me!" Medicinal discovery, It moves in mighty leaps, It leapt straight past the common cold And gave it us for keeps. I'm not a fussy woman, There's no malice in me eye, But I wish that they could cure the common cold. That's all. Goodbye. The Vegetable Garden and the Runaway Horse In everybody's garden now The grass has started growing. Gardeners, they are gardening, And mowers . . . they are mowing. Compost heaps are rotting down, And bonfires burning low, So I took up me shovel, And resolved to have a go. I dug a patch of garden That was not too hot or shady, And not too large to tax The constitution of a lady. Everything which crossed my spade, I flung it all asunder, And that which I could not dig up, I rapidly dug under. And in my little plot, I bravely laboured with the hoe, Enthusiasm running rife, I sprinted to and fro. I stopped for nothing, Not for food or drink or idle words, Except a spotted dick Someone had chucked out for the birds. Imagine then my pleasure, As it all came sprouting out, I cast aside me dibber And I swaggered round about, But, alas, the gate To which my garden was adjacent Was open, and I never saw, As up the path I hastened. When I went down on Saturday, A horse stood in my plot, But nothing else stood in it, For he'd eaten all the lot. I said, "Alas, my effort's wasted And my garden wrecked. Go away, you rotten horse," (Or words to that effect). His hooves had crushed me lettuce, And me radishes were mangled, Broken canes were scattered Where me runner beans had dangled. The lovely shiny marrow I'd been going to stuff and all, The horse had broken off its stalk, and kicked it up the wall. Standing in the ruins Of me Brussels sprouts and spinach, I threw away me shovel And I said, "Well that's the finish. No early peas for me, The birds can have them, Or the mice might, And if I want a cabbage, Well, I'll see you down at Pricerite!" The Husband's Lament or Well, You Certainly Proved Them Wrong The flowers round our garden gate Are strangled now with nettles, The caterpillars got the leaves, The road dust got the petals, There's cracks across the asphalt path, And the dusty wind do blow, I know they say "domestic bliss", But I dunno.... There'strikes chucked on the garden And there's writing on the wall, The kids have smashed the wash house With their little rubber ball. The paint's peeled off the woodwork, And the gutter's sagging fast, I bodged it up last autumn, But . . . it didn't last. And in our shattered living room, The telly's on the blink, There's fag ends in the saucers, And peelings in the sink, There's holes burned in the carpet, Where it smouldered half the night. "A Woman's Work is Never Done" And you certaily proved that right. There's barnacles in the goldfish bowl And curlers on the floor, The budgie's out the window And the woodworm's in the door. The leaves fell off the rubber plant, The leg fell off the bed, The smiles fell off our faces And the back fell off the shed. And you, who I adored, One look and I knew I was falling, You stole away my heart, Beneath the moon and that tarpaulin, It can't be you beside me, With your tights so full of holes, Chewing through your supper, All them piccalilli rolls. We've been together twenty years today, And there's a moral, We have no conversation, So we never have a quarrel, We hardly see each other, So we never have a fight, For "Silence it is Golden" And we've certainly proved that right. The Secretary's Song Secretary is my trade, Shorthand typist, second grade, With me pad clutched in me hand a Living breathing memoranda Like a ramrod on the seat, I will sit up straight and neat. With me feet placed close together, I'll remark upon the weather, But don't ask me more than that, Because I haven't got the brain To respond. I find when seated in my chair, With my conscientious stare, Stabbing pains come in me eye for What you write, I can't decipher. But when I rush in with the teas, I'll charm the birds right off the trees, I'll run to do the washing up And pick the fag ends from the cup Until I hear the siren blow, Then I'll just clock my card and go Home. I will not appear to choke In conferences thick with smoke. In vain I'll write the boring minute, And assume some interest in it. I won't elaborate the facts, And I won't come to work in slacks For they offend the royal eyeball And that cannot be allowed at all, For what's the point of women If you cannot see their legs? And when at last I'm seated by The great typewriter in the sky, Let me type the letters right, In the morning and at night. Let the Tipp-Ex grow on trees, Let men's hands stay off me knees, Let it be a place harmonic, With no need for gin and tonic. Thank you in anticipation Of your favourable reply, Craving your indulgence, Yours sincerely, Goodbye. Bournemouth He was long and tall and thin and dull And so was she, He dried his trim moustache When they had drunk their China tea. And he was very quiet, very rich And rather kind, With one eye that could see And with the other, which was blind. His hair was rather sandy And his manner rather terse, His clothes were very dull and safe But then, well, so were hers. Her shoes were very dear And never purchased on a whim, They toned in with the wardrobe And it was the same with him. She couldn't really claim, That as he read the Business News And regaled her now and then With his opinions and views, That his figure was endearing In the fat expensive chair, Flecked about with dandruff From his thin and sandy hair. And neither in his heart Could he blossom and rejoice To listen to her speaking In her flat and toneless voice, To watch her rosebud mouth Which would habitually melt Into a little smile She always smiled but never felt. But they got along together And they liked the same shampoo, And he was so polite With "Oh dear lady: After you!" And when they walked on Sunday He would always take her hand And hold it like a cold dead fish Washed up along the strand. Most weekends you could see him Striding out across the links While she would be presiding By the double drainer sinks, Their meals were full of elegance But never full of mirth, Rose and white and lobster bright And things that cost the earth. And as she whipped the cream And folded in a little more, She saw the dark-eyed sailors As they lingered on the shore. And he sat on the verandah With his Telegraph and Punch And watched the young girls laughing As he waited for his lunch. How I Loved You, Ethel Preedy, with Your Neck So Long and Slender How I loved you, Ethel Preedy, With your neck so long and slender. At the Tennis Dance What magic charm did you engender! Our eyes met in the crowd, Your fingers tightened on the racquet, But when I tore my gaze away Some swine pinched me jacket. Ever Since I had Me Op Hello, it's nice to see you looking well, What? How am I? I haven't been so good myself But I've been getting by No, I've had a bit of trouble Well, I wouldn't bore a friend But if you knew how much I'd suffered Well, your hair would stand on end. No, I'm not one to complain And we all have our cross to bear And I wouldn't even tell you What they did to me up there If you asked how many stitches I wouldn't let it cross me lips Well alright then, twenty-seven And that's not including clips. Course, it was only fifty fifty On the drip all night and day Oh they gave me all the lot And then they took it all away You wouldn't have recognised me And I'm glad I never seen ya And the doctor on the case Gave up and went back home. To Kenya. Well, I know you're in a hurry And you haven't time to stop And I've just seen Deirdre She'll want to know about me op And there's always someone worse off Than yourself, without a doubt, In my case I haven't met him But I'm sure that he's about. And you're healthy dear, enjoy it For it fades away so soon, Now I've got me eighteen pills So I'll get through this afternoon Don't give a thought to how I've suffered I'm the last one to complain I'll just keep smiling through it all Until we meet again. Thoughts of a Late-Night Knitter I had a lovely boyfriend, Knit one, purl one. Had him for a long time, Cast on for the back. Had him all the summer, Loved him, cuddled him, Push it up the knitting pin And gather up the slack. Well he knew how much I liked him, Knit one, purl one. I made him seven jerseys, Never did him any wrong, And he told me that he loved me, Knit one, purl one. Told me that he loved me But he didn't stop for long. Well he never said he'd left me, Knit one, purl one. He never even told me No, I found out on me own. I was going up the chip shop, Knit one, purl one. And he walked out the pictures With that horrid Mary Stone. Well I didn't know what hit me, Knit one, slip one. After I'd looked after him It wasn't very nice, And they went off down the High Street, Laughin', gigglin', And left me on the corner With me chips as cold as ice. Well it isn't that I miss him Knit one, drop one. I never even think of him Good riddance . . . ta taI'm very independent! Snap one, tie one. I've never been so cheerful, Ha ha . . . ha! And I hear they're getting married, Knit one, drop nine. I wish them every happiness, It's lovely staying in! Well I don't need romancing, Cuddlin', dancin'. Bundle up the knitting bag And fling it in the bin. Goodbye Worn Out Morris 1000 Oh love, you got no poke left I didn't want to say, It seems we are outmoded, Much too slow, and in the way, You know how much I love you; I'd repair you in a flash But I haven't got the knowledge And I haven't got the cash. There is rust all round your head lamps I could push through if I tried. My pot of paint can't cure it 'Cause it's from the other side. Along your sides and middle You are turning rusty brown, Though you took me ninety thousand miles And never let me down. Not the snapping of a fan belt Nor the blowing of a tyre Nor the rattling of a tappet And nor did you misfire. All your wheels stayed on the corners And your wipers on the screen Though I didn't do much for you And I never kept you clean. All your seats are un-upholstered And foam rubber specks the floor. You were hit by something else once And I cannot shut the door. But it's not those things that grieve me Or the money that I spent, For you were my First-driven, Ninety thousand miles we went. I could buy a bright and new car And go tearing round the town, A BGT! A Morgan! (With the hood all battened down). But as I leave you in the scrap yard Bangers piled up to the skies, Why do your rusty head lamps Look like sad, reproachful eyes? 40 Shades of Green The Gardening Man Oh let us salute him, the gardening man, Alone with his thoughts and his watering can, A song in his heart and a pain in his back, And all his tomatoes are starting to crack. The fly's on the carrot, the spot's on the rose, Every joy of the garden he knows, The feel of the compost, the clink of the pot, The neck of his onions all starting to rot. Oh let us admire him, the gardening fellow, There in his orchard so misty and mellow, All of its riches he reaches to grab, And all of his apples are covered in scab. The thrip's in the privet, the moth's in the peas, There's fire in his tulips and fire in his knees, But he tackles them all with a toss of his head, And a swig of the tackle he keeps in the shed. The gardener's visage, untroubled and clear, The wind's in his face and the frost's in his ear, And though disappointment his hopes may have slain, Like dust on the Perlite, he rises again. Disasters too dreadful for dwelling upon, The night that the heater was never switched on, When he slept in his bed and he never arose, While all of his blue cinerarias froze. But there's always a lawn mower blade to adjust, Always a hollyhock covered in rust, The sun's in the heavens, the dew's on the fern, And the frost on the patio fractured his urn. A blow for the gardening man let us strike! The soil's in his blood, bone, and fish if you like, ú May his joy never cease as he plants up his trough, Nor the seedllings of happiness ever . . . damp off. On SfadZ When I Get Up From My Chair Quiet please! Kindly don't impede my concentration, I am sitting in the garden thinking thoughts of propagation, Of sowng and of nurturing, the fruits my work will bear, And the place won't know what hit it . . . Once I get up from my chair. I'm at the planning stages now, if you should need to ask, And if I'm looking weary, it's the rig ours of the task, Creation of a garden is a strain, as you can guess, So if my eyes should close, it isn't sleep of course . . . It's stress. Oh the leeks that I will dibble and the beans that I will stick, The bugs that I will slaughter and the seedlings I will prick, I'll disinfect the greenhouse, I will organise the shed, And beside my faded roses I will pull off every head. The mower I will cherish and the tools that I will oil, The dark nutritious compost I will stroke into the soil, My sacrifice, devotion and heroic aftercare, Will leave you green with envy . . . Once I get up from my chair. Oh the weeds that I shall mutilate, the clumps that I will split, I'm foaming at the mouth just at the very thought of it, I am heaving at the traces, I am tearing out my hair, And you'll see a ruddy hero . . . Once I get up from my chair. I will massacre the bindweed and the moss upon the lawn, That hairy bitter cress will curse the day that it was born, I will rise against the foe and in the fight we will be matched, And the woolly caterpillars they will curse the day they hatched. Oh the branches I will layer and the cuttings I will take, Let other fellows dig a pond - I shall dig a lake, My garden, what a showpiece! There'll be pilgrims come to stare, And I'll bow, and take the credit . . . Once I get up from my chair. Behold My Bold Provider Behold my bold provider, he can hunt and he can trap, He can make a set of hinges from a piece of leather strap, See his trousers fashioned from the finest rabbit skins, As he sits astride the sawing horse and sews his moccasins. He can craft a dry stone wall and he can build in daub and wattle, There is no cringing rabbit my provider cannot throttle, His mighty hands in tandem can be simmering the jam, Making rope soled sandals and delivering a lamb. Happiness he claims is just a mug of herbal tea, His own methane digester to provide the energy, He spurns the wimpish jersey on the Marks & Spencer shelf, His is brown and knobbly, he knitted it himself. He stalks the dripping undergrowth and coppices the ash, And pities the commuters in their early morning dash, Till, weary from his lab ours he may pause from splitting logs, To rest and gnaw a bone and fling the gristle to the dogs. We're having goat tonight although the meat is very tough, He's made the goats milk cheese. I only wish I liked the stuff, Here he comes with nature's riches all for me to pluck, Twenty-seven partridges, a gander and a duck. Wearing all these skins he cured himself to keep him warm, I see him at the beehive as he juggles with a swarm, Or in the glowing lamplight all is harmony and peace, As we sit before the open fire and card another fleece. Our dinner's in the hay box and my frock is on the loom, My provider's gone aloft to thatch another room, And I give thanks eternal that of all the roles in life, Mine, by great good fortune, was a bold provider's wife. To Make a Whale Man is gloriously clever Making intricate machines And complicated gadgetry And bigger runner beans And journeys into space With mighty rockets in the tail - But when the last one's towed away He couldn't make a whale. The Insects' Anthem We. We the assembled. Do hereby pledge a solemn vow, If any of us be faint-hearted, Let him leave the party now. Our comrades all have gone to glory, We will not see their like again, They figured briefly in life's story, And now are numbered with the slain. We are gathered here together, Recalling creatures great and small, Their names are on the roll of honour, Here upon the garden wall, These are the heroes of our nation, These are the victims of the spray, All those who fell in rot ovation And all forms of cultivation, We remember them today. Friends. Friends and neighbours, And all de pendants of the soil, We, whose lives are overshadowed, In every aspect of our toil, For those who cling to vegetation, Inhabitants of bean and pea, Those who wade upon the water And those in peril . . . up a tree. We see them bearing down upon us, Armed with their implements and hoes, We see them marching down the furrows, To give us all a bloody nose, We live in fear of persecution, Our song of freedom must be sung, And those of us they have beheaded, Pruned and com posted and shredded, Lie abandoned in the dung. So, in condemnation Of evil deeds and slaughter foul Those, So murderously taken, By the dibble and the trowel For those that tremble in the darkness For those whose roots are far below, Who dread, the whistle of the st rimmer And the man, who went to mow. Weevils mites and hairy spiders, Aphids ladybirds and bees Gather round in supplication, On their bended hairy knees From the bondage of oppression We will one day all be free Every creepy every crawly, Every martyr gone to glory In the name of liberty (heroic big finish:) Liberty, Li-her-tEEEEEEEE! *A Jlag wy be wed at is dra went The Beach Lovers Come and walk beside me For the sun is sinking low And together to the edges Of the ocean we shall go, And all our rosy future In perspective we shall put Stepping lightly on the rubbish As it moulders underfoot. Where all the plastic bottles Blow across the golden sand And old refrigerators Know the tide's caressing hand, We'll breathe the sweet aroma, I will take your hand for ever, Across life's broken glass, And I shall jettison you never. Happy Families Their son has flown the nest and gone all the way to Australia. In this, his Mum's first loving letter, we get an insight into the family. Jim Dear Jim, we've had your letter and your Dad's deciphered that, As I fried him up some sausages in deep nutritious fat, I think of you out there while we're awake and you're asleep, And I think of you each Friday when you used to pay your keep. Your letter is a treasure, made us cry and made us laugh, Thank you for the kisses in the final paragraph, We loved the surfing photo, laughing, hands upon your hips, And Dad says what's that white stuff you've got plastered round your lips? My son, you know your leaving was a sore distress to me, So your Dad kindly took me out to Crocodile Dundee, Therefore I am sending separately in a box, My bone-handled bread knife should you need to stab the crocs. We found it quite a trial when we had seen you board the plane, Climbing in the car and driving homeward once again, Those magazines beneath your bed, Dad took away to store, He found them very interesting and can he have some more? My son I feel your presence though you're far across the seas, I seem to hear your name . . . "Jim" as a whisper on the breeze, I'm grieving for you sweetheart, no son gave his Mother more, I can't bring myself to touch your underclothes dropped on the floor. Indeed your aching absence is tormenting Dad and me, So we have hatched a little plot as you will shortly see, We've counted up our savings and we know it's not too late, Jim! We have decided that we're going to emigrate! We've filled in all the papers and your Dad has had the jabs, He's handed in his notice and the house is up for grabs, So clear a little corner of your condominium, We'll be there a week on Monday, lots of love from Dad and Mum! They have had a row. Here she tells you everything - and nothing. A Slight Howsyourfather It's a bit . . . like that . . . at the moment, A bit . . . better left well alone, A bit . . . least said soonest mended, You know . . . when we're next on our own. Well, we have had a slight howsyourfather, A touch of the old you-know-who, Well, I found her here with him on Friday, And we did. We he quite a to-do. It's not that I blame him entirely, It's not what some people might think, And he has had his confidence shattered, Since the whatsisname went on the blink. I mean it was always a bit of a job, It was never a hundred per cent, He had several attacks of the doings, And the last time it just sort of . . . went. I told him: "Don't bother about it! Just put it right out of your head!" But he worried you see and he fretted, Scratched it of course and it spread. But it's her that I feel took advantage, She's not like him, she knows the score, She's always been fond of the need-I-say-what, With you-know-who, need I say more? So we're both, as it were, treading lightly, And nobody's got much to say, We're all right, more or less, but I have to confess, That it is a bit . . . like that . . . today. Who's Had My Scissors? WHOws HAD MY SCISSORS? It just isn't fair I left them right here on the arm of my chair, I know that you all live in chaos, that's fine, But this little corner, this cupboard, it's MINE! I know you think "Oh Mum's just having a moan," But the times that I've bought you a pair of your own, I bought little red ones with safe rounded ends, To try and prevent you from stabbing your friends. I've bought pencil cases with scissors in too But where are they now? Oh, we haven't a clue! I know you're too busy to listen to me, Slumped on the sofa all watching TV. I know. I shall find them in some muddy crater Out in the garden a week or two later There they will be at the end of the hunt, Rusty and buckled and horribly blunt. It's just that I'd hoped for a moment or two, To pick up my stitching and finish the blue, To whip up the side in a flurry of tacks, And cut off the thread with a ruddy great axe. My scissors are missing. You may not have heard. They're silver and wrought in the shape of a bird, In a pouch of red leather with fol de rols on And while I don't wish to sound boring . . . they've GONE! Wait! Someone is answering, this is a treat! Of course I have looked down the side of my seat What? So they are! Down the side of the chair! All right. Tell the truth. Which of you put them there? A child's eye view. The Policeman Dear Dad you've always told me the policeman guards the weak, And if ever I'm in trouble he's the person I should seek, You've told me how he lab ours night and day with little thanks, Catching thugs and criminals and people robbing banks, How he does his best to keep us safe and keep us sound, And how all decent people are relieved when he's around. And yet Dad, when we drove to Auntie Jean's the other day, And that policeman made you stop along the motorway, When he pressed that little piece of paper in your hand, Well, you made all those suggestions that I did not understand. Long after he had gone you kept on clawing back your hair, And making all those strange two-fingered gestures in the air, You ranted and you raved, we had to get out of the car, And Mother had to fan you with a copy of The Star. What worries me if he's our friend, and that is what you said, Is what you'd do if he'd have been an enemy instead. I Don't Like That Ugh! I don't like meat, and I can't eat cheese, I like Mum's cakes but I couldn't fancy these, It's boring here, do I have to stay? And I wish I hadn't bothered coming here to play. Can I have a Fanta? Can I have a Coke? Is that your Dad? He's a dodgy looking bloke, Can I watch telly? Home and Away? They were fighting with a crocodile yesterday. Can I have a bag of crisps? Can I have two? Ugh! Not plain, are there any barbecue? Your dog's scratched me! Look he's left a place! That is why I had to go and kick him in the face. Have you got a Game Boy? Can I have a go? Can I have a borrow of your Nintendo? Any new computer games? Not as good as me I've got an Atari and a BBC. I'm absolutely starving, are we ever having tea? When my Mum cooks the sausages they have to wait for me, They're always on the table and there's never a delay, And I never have to tidy up, I just go out to play. I never hit tim That's not true! I never laid a finger on him! Bleghh* to you I never did it, I wasn't there, And even if I had been, I don't care! I tried your bike, oh, I left it in the rain, I rode it up the cobbles, something happened to the chain, You should have heard the racket when I rode it down the stairs, There's a good shop in the High Street if it wants a few repairs. He makes a ho rid face at this point! Not Cricket The sun is beating down and we are seated at the ground, You alert beside me drinking in the sight and sound, Your every nerve is straining, rapt attention is assured, So what cannot be machine-gunned will just have to be endured. The gilded first eleven is upon the hallowed pitch, One is us and one is them, don't ask me which is which, Languidly the captains gather round to toss a coin, And someone rubs a ball with relish up and down his groin. What mouldering eternity the hours take to pass, I gaze up at the sky and then I gaze down at the grass, Innings come and go, they hit a six, they hit a four, We might be in the lead but then again I can't be sure. I see you there beside me, not a flicker, not a twitch, You are mesmerised and I am bored to fever pitch, The ball goes rolling by with someone hard upon its heels, A player has been stumped and I know just the way he feels. A gentleman in front of me has taken this quite hard, He mops his brow and testily he scribbles on his card, In his thinning hair I see a wasp become ensnared, It stung him when the score was fifty-one for two declared. The endless walking on the field, the endless walking back, The mute incomprehension as the scoreboard starts to clack, The talk is of the overs and the Series and the Test, While out of the pavilion come beery shouts of jest. Those tired cricket stories, how they never fail to bore, That bowling maidens over joke, I've heard it all before, Silly mid-ons, googlies, how they all begin to pall And so too does that story where the umpire shouts "No Ball!" But wait! There's been a ripple and I think someone is hit, Yes! The ball has struck the batsman and he's staggering a bit, He's reeling to the left-hand side and reeling to the right, This is the most gripping moment since we came on Monday night. The physio is racing to the knot of stricken men, He opens up his case and there's Emergency Ward 10, But the batsman's on his feet. Oh no, it's all gone very dull, I thought he had concussion or perhaps a fractured skull. BORED? I must be the most BORED spectator left alive, Can't tell if I've been sitting here for three days or for five, If it was bull-fighting and the matador was gored, There might be something to laugh at but quite candidly I'm BORED. A social outcast, cricket is no music to my ears, I've been here for a century and I am bored to tears, The day is over! God at last has hearkened to my prayer, And I think we won the ashes. I don't know . . . and I DON'T CARE! Once I was a Looker and so was my Spouse Once I was a looker and so was my spouse. I recall when we first came to live in this house, He was young, optimistic and fresh in the face With never the twang of a hernia brace. He said he would die if he could not be mine, He wooed me with words more addictive than wine. The monastery beckoned, he wanted no other But now he troops in and he says "Ulloo Mother." He'd bound through the door with a laugh and a slap And I used to think "My, there's a handsome young chap. Thank Heavens I'm wed to a red-blooded man." But now I get pecks like you'd give your old Gran. He used to take pains with the look of his hair: The top London salons, they all knew him there. No end ever split and no high standard slid. Now he goes round to George who'll oblige for a quid. But when he first courted me, wasn't I proud! His gay repartee had me laughing out loud. But now he reclines in his jersey and socks And in my direction grunts "What's on the box?" I used to look on as he walked down the street A picture of style from his head to his feet, But now there's a cap where the tresses have thinned, And faded old trousers that flap in the wind. Mind, I'm not blameless, I know very well That the strain of maternity's starting to tell. I do what I can but there's one thing for sure, The mirror is no friend of mine any more. He used to admire my refinement and poise, I'd turn up my nose at a smell or a noise. But now when I'm shouting he ducks with the rest As I go ha ring past with a po and a vest. Oh yes he admired the cut of my jib, And wasn't I thin? You could see every rib. But now in the chrome at the top of the cooker I see many things, but I can't see a looker. The Swimming Song I like to swim, I'll meet you after school. It keeps us trim, I'll see you down the pool. It keeps us fit, Watch out we're on the prowl. We do our bit, Talcum powder and a towel Both great and small. Watch us on the diving board, Life savers all Duke of Edinburgh's Award. If we're around We're demons in the drink. You won't get drowned We never ever Sink. We swim like fish - Cod, kipper, cockle, carp. Here, there, gone, swish! Oh play it on your harp. And diving too In the deep dark dregs, Just me and you, We'll be laughing at the legs. Just name the stroke, Oh, the butterfly and crawl, And I'm your bloke, Will you give me back my ball? I love to spring Plunge plink plonk paddle, It makes me sing Tra la diddle daddle. We're in the shower, Shampoo soap scrub For half an hour, Rub a dub a dub a dub. Do you know that Dad gave me fifty pence? You aren't half fat! Ouch! Eek! No offence! It's great to swim, Never any pain or ache. It keeps us slim, Would you like a piece of cake? So after school If you have an hour to spend, Come to the pool, We'll race you to the end. Don't Start! Hello Mum! We're here! What awful traffic round the place! Richard! In you come, Don't push the door in Grandma's face! Making sure we brought it all, That's been the hardest part, RICHARD! Don't do that! Get down! Come here! Sit still! Don't start! We had to come this morning, It's the only chance we've got, Dad'll need the car this week, He's travelling a lot, He sold the van, he advertised it In Exchange and Mart, RICHARD! Put that back! Don't touch! Now then! D'you hear? Don't start! How's your ear? No better? Have it syringed Mum, go today. I had mine syringed in April, I fell over all that day. We didn't have the dog put down, We didn't have the heart. DON'T YOU PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH! I'm warning you! Don't start! You said you'd be a good boy, But I haven't seen it yet. Now look what Granny's given you, A little . . . dartboard set. Don't just throw the paper down! NO! DON'T YOU THROW THAT DART! What a good thing Granny ducked! Behave yourself. Don't start. I've done the tea, Well by this afternoon I'll start to flag, I made us Gourmet Beef, You had to boil it in the bag. Dad likes a home-made pudding, So I bought a Bakewell Tart. No! You can't have some now! Sit up! Don't answer back! Don't start! What? Is that the time? Half past eleven! What a shock, Back we go then, Dad'll want the car for two o'clock. Look at all this junk! We should have brought a horse and cart. LOOK OUT! How many more times? Now look what you've done! Don't start! Say "Bye Bye" to Granny And say "Thanks for having me". Richard! Kiss your gran, Or you'll end up across my knee. SHE HAS NOT GOT WHISKERS, Richard! Don't you be so smart! You thank her for a lovely time, That's it. Bye Mum . . . and don't start. Aerobics Well Mother, did I make a fool of myself, Last night on the bathroom floor! I'm so out of shape so I put on the tape That I sent to the TV for. Well on came the voice of the expert, With advice to be careful and slow, But I thought I knew best, I flung off me vest, And I thought "Right-O Mother, let's go!" I bought my John McEnroe trainers, My, how expensive they've grown! But the thing with this pair is if I'm not there, They can run round the block on their own. I did buy my husband some Reeboks, I'm afraid they're too high-tech for me. You pump up the slack, flames shoot out the back, And you slow down this side of Dundee. Then I did bicycling exercises, By Golly, I gave it what for, Flat on me back with me knees going "crack" As the draught whistled under the door, I borrowed your leotard, Mother, The one that enhances me charms. Thanks very much but it went at the crutch When I started rotating me arms. I bought my dear husband a tracksuit, He said terry to welling is best. With a curl of his lip, he did up the zip, And took all the hair off his chest; And I bought him an exercise cycle, The price would have made a man wince. He never got off for a fortnight, And he's never been on the thing since! We thought we might go on a fun run, We went with a very nice friend. He'd not run before and he won't any more, No, they stretchered him off in the end. I have had a dabble at tennis, I jog now and then and I swim, And I've just met this yoga instructor . . . I'm off for a dabble with him! All Dust and Rubble I have got the builders in - It's not a lot of trouble; Choking in the dust And falling over in the rubble. But I shall see much clearer Once my lintels have been raised, And come the revolution We shall all be double glazed. They're hacking at the plaster And they're tearing up the floor. Don't go out! The painter's Slapping primer on the door. My little dog gets in the way They say, "Come out me dear!" If I'm in the room - If not, they kick her in the rear. I'm the only one who doesn't have A Job to do. Everybody's sprinting past With chunks of four by two. I make the tea at ten And then I make some more at three And while I'm on the subject, Would you like a cup of tea? The plumber's very nice Although his hair is white with dust. Chase me if you like But chase the pipe work if you must. Every window's open, The wind is like a knife And the Sparks is cracking Pornographic jokes about his wife. They switched off the electric, They didn't tell me why. The central heating boiler's Stiff and cold and so am I. But I mustn't be downhearted! I'd wash up and make a drink! But there isn't any water And there isn't any sink. Oh, wrap me in a dust sheet Till my wood has all been sealed, Till my tiles have all been grouted And my stonework all revealed. Eradicate my infestations! Fill my cavities with foam! Normal life will be resumed When the builders have gone home. I am a Witney Blanket I am a Witney Blanket, Original and Best. You'll never get cold feet With me across your chest. In Stanford-in-the-Vale, when I was a girl, one couple lived in a converted railway carriage. It was very black but it had a lovely rose arch at the entrance, and was covered all over with more roses and climbing plants. It looked a very well-loved home. The Railway Carriage Couple Our home's a railway carriage And it cannot be denied That you might describe our dwelling As a little bit on the side, Yet it has the odd advantages Where other housing fails And we're on the straight and narrow So we can't go off the rails! Our decor is original, It's simple but it's good With little plaques screwed on the wall That give the type of wood, And up above the headrest Of the seat marked number five Is a photograph of Cheddar Gorge In case we don't arrive. Yes we're the railway carriage couple With the long drive at the front - Or it might be at the back If we feel like a change, and shunt. We're a little isolted But if ever I get bored And feel like communicating I stand up and pull the cord. I don't do much entertaing, It's too cramped, you see, by far For dining graciously Because it's not a buffet car, So we eat out in the corridor, My husband doesn't care But I like to face the engine Even though it isn't there. Of course there is a certain problem Which we have and always will In that we cannot use the toilet While the train is standing still. So we built one just beside us And we glazed it in with glass. The first time my husband used it He came back and said "First Cbss!" We have a little garden, We don't buy much in the town. You can see us any evening Raking clinker up and down. You might see us in our door If you don't travel by too fast, And we'll let down two holes in the leather strap And wave as you go past. Heaps of Stuff How I wish that I was tidy, How I wish that I was neat, How I wish I was methodical Like others down our street. I tried to stem the rising tide, I tried to hold it back But I have been the victim Of a heap of stuff attack. Yes, heaps of stuff come creeping, They clutter up the hall. And heaps of stuff are softly Climbing halfway up the wall. At each end of the staircase Is a giant heap, a stack; One to carry up the stairs And one to carry back. In a heap of stuff invasion They settle everywhere - They grovel on the lino, They tower on the chair. You're searching for a jacket, "Is it in here?" you shout, And, opening the cupboard door, A heap of stuff falls out. But heaps are many-faceted And heaps are multi-faced, And what a heap is made of Will depend on where it's placed. Now if it's in the passage It is mostly boots and shoes, And if it's on the sofa It is magazines and news. If it's in the shed It's broken propagating frames And if it's in the bathroom, Well, it's best to say no names, And if it's in the bedroom - Your own and not the guest's - The heap of stuff is mostly made Of socks and shirts and vests. For a heap is indestructible, It's something you can't fight. If you split it up by day It joins back up at night. So cunningly positioned As from room to room you trek, Increasing all the chances That you trip and break your neck. But step into my parlour Now I've forced the door ajar; I'll excavate an easy chair - Just cling there where you are. And together we'll survey it Till our eyes they feast enough On the tidiest home in England Underneath the heaps of stuff. Please Will You Take Your Children Home Before I Do Them In Please will you take your children home Before I do them in? I kissed your little son As he came posturing within. I took his little jacket And removed his little hat But now the visit's over So push off, you little brat. And don't think for a moment That I didn't understand How the hatchet he was waving In his grotty little hand Broke my china teapot That I've always held so dear - But would you mind removing him? And take his jungle spear. Of course I wasn't angry As I shovelled up the dregs, I'm only glad the tea bags Didn't scald his little legs. I'm glad he liked my chocolate cake I couldn't help but laugh As he rubbed it in the carpet . . . Would he like the other half? He guzzled all the orange And he guzzled all the Coke - The only thing that kept me sane Was hoping he might choke. And then he had a mishap, Well, I couldn't bear to look, Do something for your Auntie, little sunshine . . . Sling your hook. He's playing in the garden, He's throttled all the flowers. Give the lad a marlin spike, He'll sit out there for hours. I've gathered my insecticides And marked them with their name And put them up where children Couldn't reach them. That's a shame. Still he must have liked my dog Because he choked her half to death, She'll go out for another game Once she's caught her breath. He rode her round the garden And he bashed her with his rope. She's never bitten anyone But still, we live in hope. He's kicked the TV now! I like to see it getting booted. Kick it one more time, son, You might get electrocuted! Yes, turn up the volume, Twist the knobs, me little treasure And when the programme's over There's the door. It's been a pleasure. Goodwill to Men: Give Us Your Money It was Christmas Eve on a Fridby, The shops was full of cheer, With tinsel in the windows, And presents twice as dear. A thousand Father Christmases Sat in their little huts, And folk was buying crackers And folk was buying nuts. All up and down the country, Before the light was snuffed, Turkeys they got murdered, And cockerels they got stuffed. Christmas cakes got marzipanned, And puddin's they got steamed, Mothers they got desperate, And tired kiddies screamed. Hundredweights of Christmas cards Went flying through the post, With first-class postage stamps on those You had to flatter most. Within a million kitchens, Mince pies was being made, On everybody's radio, "White Christmas", it was played. Out in the frozen countryside, Men crept round on their own, Hacking off the holly What other folks had grown. Mistletoe from willow trees Was by a man wrenched clear, So he could kiss his neighbour's wife He'd fancied all the year. And out upon the hillside Where the Christmas trees had stood, All was completely barren But for little stumps of wood. The little trees that flourished All the year were there no more, But in a million houses Dropped their needles on the floor. And out of every cranny, cupboard, Hiding place and nook, Little bikes and kiddies' trikes Were secretively took. Yards of wrapping paper Was rustled round about, And bikes were wheeled to bedrooms With the pedals sticking out. Rolled up in Christmas paper, The Action Men were tensed, All ready for the morning, When their fighting life commenced. With tommy guns and daggers, All clustered round about, "Peace on Earth - Goodwill to Men", The figures seemed to shout. The church was standing empty, The pub was standing packed, There came a yell, "Noel, Noel!" And glasses they got cracked. From up above the fireplace, Christmas cards began to fall, And trodden on the floor, said: "Merry Xmas, to you all." The Slimming Poem I'm a slimmer by trade, I'm frequently weighed, I'm slim as a reed in the river. I'm slender and lean, and hungry and mean - Have some water, it's good for your liver. Don't give me cheese rolls or profiteroles, Don't show me that jelly a-shakin', Don't give me cream crackers, you picnic and snackers Or great big ice-creams with a flake in. Don't give me swiss roll or toad-in-the-hole, Don't show me that Black Forest gateau. You sit and go mouldy, you old garibaldi, Your pastry all riddled with fat. Oh! When fat, I feel weary and tubby and dreary, The stairs make me struggle and grunt, dear, And yet I'm so happy and punchy and snappy With hip bones all stuck out the front, dear. No, it's white fish for me, no milk in me tea And if we don't like it we lump it, No figs or sultanas, no mashed-up bananas, No pleasure and no buttered crumpet. Don't get any bigger, me old pear-shaped figure, I can and I will become thinner. So cheer up and take heart, pass the calorie chart, Let's see what we're having for dinner! Puddings - A Slice of Nostalgia Don't open no more tins of Irish Stew, Alice, You know it makes me pace the bedroom floor. You gave me Irish Stew a week last Sunday, And I never got to sleep till half past four. You open up another tin of spam, Alice, Or them frankfurter sausages in brine, And we'll stab them, sitting opposite each other, And you can dream your dreams, and I'll dream mine. I'll dream about me apple cheeked old mother, Her smiling face above a pot of broth. She used to cook us every sort of pudding, Proper puddings . . . in a pudding cloth! When we came home from school all cold and hungry, One look along the clothes line was enough, And if the pudding cloth was there a-flapping, We all knew what it meant - a suet duff! A suet duff would set your cheeks a-glowing, Suet duff and custard, in a mound, And even if you'd run about all morning, A suet duff would stick you to the ground, Or else there'd be a lovely batter pudding, With all the edges burnt so hard and black, That if your teeth had grown a bit too long like, Well, that would be the stuff to grind them back. She used to make us lovely apple puddings, She'd boil them all the morning on the stove. If you bit on something hard that wasn't apple, The chances were, you'd bitten on a clove, Or else there'd be a great jam roly poly, We'd watch it going underneath the knife, And if you took a bite a bit too early, The red hot jam would scar your mouth for life. Oh bring back the roly poly pudding, Bread and butter pudding . . . Spotted Dick! Great big jugs filled up with yellow custard, That's the sort of pudding I would pick, But here's the tube of artificial cream, Alice, I've cleaned the nozzle out, the hole's so fine, And we'll squirt it on our little pots of yoghurt, And you can dream your dreams, and I'll dream mine. The Dreadful Accident with the Kitchen Scissors I gave my lovely teddy bear a haircut, For Mother she had sent me for a trim And really, I felt that much better for it I thought that I would do the same for him. I picked him up and grabbed the kitchen scissors, "Just a snip or two, old bear," I said, But I find I was not meant to be a barber, For accidentally, I cut his head. I do not criticise the man who stuffed him, He had to do it thoroughly no doubt, But I wish he had not stuffed the head so solid, Then I could stop the stuffing coming out. I've had to wrap me bear's head in a turban; Well, he's been dressed up like it for a week. Mum asked me, "What's he got that round his head for?" I said, "It's a turban, Mummy - he's a Sikh!" But how long can I keep up the deception? Where his face was plump it's sunken in; And though he's very hard across the forehead, He's turning very soft around the chin! I haven't dared to look beneath his turban, I know it's just a mass of coloured foam, And Mother's started looking very puzzled As she picks up bits of it around the home. And Auntie Greta's coming here for dinner And she's the one who gave the bear to me, And that is when my crime will be uncovered, For I know that he won't stand much scrutiny. Oh Mother, Auntie Greta, I'm so sorry! I tried to sew his head up, I tried hard! But as I said, they stuffed his head so tightly That every stitch has stretched out half a yard! I'm waiting by the door for Auntie Greta, I rammed poor Teddy underneath the quilt, And every time a car stops by our gateway, Both me knees start knocking from the guilt. She's bound to say, "Now where's that lovely Teddy?" And his head's all caving in . . . What shall I do? Oh Crikey, here it is, a blue Marina . . . Oh, Hello Auntie Greta . . . how are you? Where There's a Will . . . there's a sobbing relation All the family was gathered To hear poor Grandad's will: Fred was watching Alice, And she was watching Bill; He was watching Arthur, Everywhere he went, But specially at the cupboard, Where Grandad kept the rent. Outside on the patio, The sliding door was closed, And sitting in a chair Was nephew John, his face composed. He said, "Me dear old Grandad, I shall never see you more," And his sheets of calculations Were spread across the floor. Downstairs in the kitchen, Sister Alice blew her nose, Saying, "He always was my favourite, You knew that I suppose? You couldn't have found a nicer man, I've never loved one dearer. I'd have come round much more often If I'd lived just that bit nearer." Cousin Arthur sat alone, His eyes were wild and rash, And desperately he tried to think Where old follks hid their cash. He'd thought about the armchair And the mattress on the bed, And he'd left his car at home And booked a Pickford's van instead. Then there were the bedroom floorboards, He'd studied every crack And twice, while dusting the commode, He'd rolled the carpet back. But he knew the others watched him. "You scavengers," he cursed, And every night he prayed, "Don't let the others find it first." The day that Grandad's will was read, It came up bright and clear. The lawyer man looked round, And said, "Now then, are we all here?" Someone shouted, "Yes'" And someone else unscrewed his pen, And someone sat upon his coat, So he could not stand up agan. He carefully unfolded it And wonderingly said, "This is the shortest will I ever will have read." He rolled a fag and carefully Laid in a filter tip, While beads of sweat they gathered On Cousin Arthur's lip. "It says: `Me dear relations, Thank you all for being so kind, And out beside the lily pond You will surely find The half a million pounds, With which I stuffed me garden gnome, Which I leave, with great affection, To the Battersea Dogs' Home.`" A Song Oh Don't Sell Our Edgar No More Violins Oh don't sell our Edgar no more violins, That dear little laddie of mine. Though he's but eight, we'd prefer him to wait, Or I doubt if he'll live to be nine. He plays the same song, and it's sad, and it's long, And when Edgar reaches the end, With his face full of woe, he just rosins the bow, And starts it all over again. Now Daddy says Edgar's a right little gem, It's only Daddy's face that looks bored, It's really delight makes his face appear white, When Edgar scrapes out that first chord. Daddy of course, he was filled with remorse, When Edgar came home from the choir, To find that his fiddle, well, the sides and the middlle, Were stuffed down the back of the fire. So don't sell our Edgar no more violins, When next he appears in your shop. His Daddy and me, we are forced to agree, His fiddlin' will soon have to stop. Sell him a clean, or a filthy magazine, Ply him with whisky or gin, A teddy! A bunny! or just pinch the kid's money, But don't sell our Edgar no more violins. For though it be a mortal sin, We'll do the little fiddler in, Don't sell our Edgar no more violins. I Don't Want to Go to School, um I don't want to go to school, um, I want to stay at home with my duck. I'd rather stay at home with you, Mum, And hit the skirting board with my truck. Don't make me go to school today, Mum, I'll sit here quiet on the stairs, Or I'll sit underneath the table, Scratdling all the varnish off the chairs. I don't want to go to school, Mum, When I could be underneath your feet. It's shopping day and we could go together, Taking twice as long to get to Regent Street. And every time you stop to talk to someone, I won't let you concentrate, no fear, I'll be jumping up and down beside you Shouting "Can I have some sweets, Mum?" in your ear. Or how about me doing a bit of painting? Or what about a bit of cutting out? Or sitting in the open bedroom window, Body in and legs sticking out? Or what about us going up the park, Mum? Or how about me sitting at the sink? Or what about me making you a cake, Mum? And Mum. Hey Mum. Mum, can I have a drink? Mum, what's that at the bottom of the cupboard? And Mum, what's in that bag you put down there? And hey, Mum, watch me jump straight off the sofa, And, Mum, whose dog is that stood over there? What you, doing Mum? Peeling potatoes? Sit me on the drainer watching you. I wouldn't mind me trousers getting wet, Mum. Oh I aren't half fed up. What can I do? What time is Daddy coming home, Mum? What's in that long packet? Sausage meat? How long is it before he comes, Mum? And, Mum. Hey, Mum. What can I have to eat? Oh sorry, Mum! I've upset me Ribena. Oh look! It's making quite a little pool. Hey, Mum, hey, where we going in such a hurry? Oh, Mum! Hey, Mum, you're taking me to SCHOOL! After the Jubilee Don't play anything else on your squeeze box, Mother, To Honour the Jubilee. I daresay the Queen would enjoy it But it has started grating on me. Come and sit on this tattered old bunting, Here's your tea in a Jubilee cup. Don't play "God save the Queen" for a minute, Or in other words, Mother . . . shut up. Ah, but how we rose to the occasion With our patriotism and flags, With our parties and fetes and processions And our Jubilee carrier bags. How we planned for the local street party With the sun beating down on our heads, But unfortunately it rained on you and me So we had it in Angus's shed. But the dingy old street, how we decked it, How the neighbours all chattered and talked As they knocked the tin tacks in the Union Jacks, And the next day the whole lot had walked. And the kiddies all rushed down to help us, Who's to say industry never pays? They wrote, "Long may she reign" on the brickwork, And it did, look, it poured down for days! And the bonfires they lit in the village, Well, we'll see nothing like it again, And the only bonfire that burned brighter Was the shock one up Arsonists Lane. And we went on a torchlight procession, We all bought special torches for that. I held mine up high, proudly up in the sky, And me shoulders got covered in fat. So before you strike up again, Mother, Let me refill your Jubilee cup. Me slab cake went down in the middle But I've turned it the other way up. The fireworks and fetes are all over, The street parties swept up and done. Here's a message for Buckingham Palace, Can we do it again? It was fun! Little Nigel Gnasher Little Nigel Gnasher was his name, He bit his nails. When other boys were having fights Or finding slugs and snails, You always knew that Nigel Would be at his normal station, Beside the rails he bit his nails Eyes shut for concentration. His mother tried to stop him But young Nigel's ears were shut. She wrapped his hands in woolly gloves, But Nigel Gnasher cut Straight through the woolly fabric With his sharp and practised teeth And bit the helpless fingernails That sheltered underneath. Mrs Gnasher took him To the Doctor one fine day. The Doctor looked at Nigel's nails And quickly looked away, Saying, "Calcium deficiency Has laid these nails to waste." And he gave the lad a bag of chalk But he didn't like the taste. Oh he bit them on the landing And he bit them on the stair. Nigel Gnasher bit his nails Till there was nothing there. Nigel Gnasher bit them Till he couldn't stand the pain And then he'd summon up his courage And bite them all again. When other people rested, Hands outstretched on the set tee Nigel sat upon his hands So people wouldn't see. He plastered them with Dettol, Savlon, Germolene and more. He'd have it done by half past one And bite it off by four. One day a local millionaire Was driving round about. He spotted Nigel Gnasher And impulsively leaned out Crying, "Here's a present, sonny, From eccentric Jeffrey Krupp," And a fiver hit the ground, But Nigel couldn't pick it up! And then the local bully, Carver Clay, he came along And though his head was short, His fingernails were very long. He pushed aside poor Nigel Who lay clawing at the ground, And ran off with the fiver Shouting, "Look what I have found!" So the moral of this story, Little Gnashers far and wide, Is, don't bite them up the middle And don't bite them down the side, Don't bite them front or sideways, Spare your poor nails from the habit, Then if someone throws a fiver They will be on hand to grab it! The Car Wash Black and Blues Oh Dad, oh please don't send me down the Car Wash Just like you send me every Friday night, For on seeing the mechanical contrivance I find that I am overcome with fright. I put my fifty pence into the slot, Dad, And as the mechanism starts to go, The last thing that I see before the darkness Is the wash attendant saying, "Cheerio." And it's black, Dad, black as night inside the Car Wash, And every time I realise too late That the wireless aerial's not in the socket And before my eyes it scribes a figure eight. I know it's quick, Dad, speedy and efficient, Them brushes clean the car from head to feet But they also get the windscreen wipers, Daddy, And flick them half a mile across the street. Them rubbers, Dad, they're slapping at the window; I know they're supposed to make the paintwork gleam But I am thinking, Dad, in all the racket, Will anybody hear me when I scream? It's proper claustrophobic in the Car Wash, Them brushes, Dad, are sinister and black. If the front one doesn't lift the lid and get you, Another one is rolling up the back. You haven't got a coward for a son, Dad, For all the times my back you've gaily slapped. It's just that with the Car Wash coming at me I sort of get the feeling that I'm trapped. And all that drumming, Dad, it isn't water. It's hot wax spraying all around the place; One day I left the quarter light ajar, Dad, And hot wax spattered all across my face. Oh, Dad, don't let us patronise the Car Wash. Let us use our old-fashioned plan, Washing it ourselves on Sunday morning With a squirt of Fairy Liquid in the can. Don't send me down the Car Wash any more, Dad, Send my sister, send my cousin Alf, Send someone insensitive and stupid Or alternatively, drive it there yourself! The Flit Gun My Mother had a Flit Gun, It was not devoid of charm. A bit of Flit Shot out of it, The rest shot up her arm. Eat, Drink and Be Sick Well, Happy Christmas, Father, Have I got a treat for you! A pair of socks in bottle green And one in navy blue. I wrapped them round your after-shave And put them by the tree And wrote me name in biro So you'd know they came from me. Well yes, I'll have a mince pie, please And then I'll have a date And then I'll crack a nut or two And fling them in the grate, And then I'll have a fig And then perhaps a glass of wine And then another two or three To make me forehead shine. One cold turkey sandwich But a small one, understand. Look, the meat's all falling out - You got a rubber band? Stoke the fire up, Father, Ram the poker down the back. Those taters in the ashes, Well, they've never looked so black! I'll have a liqueur chocolate With the crunchy sugar coat That rattles round your teeth And turns to gravel in your throat. How nice the room looks, Mother, With the tinsel round the walls, I'll have an Advocaat then, please, Yes, that one there, the Balls. Just one slice of Christmas cake Then I shall have to run! A tangerine then, if you must- Just hold this Chelsea bun. One glass of cherry brandy No more crystal fruits for me! Happy Christmas all! I'm going home to have me tea! Take me back to old Littlehampton I didn't want this holiday, I know I shall't enjoy it. If I think of any way to hamper yours Then I'll employ it. I didn't like the journey And I don't like our hotel And I wish I'd stayed at home, That would have done me very well. No! I am not going swimming, Not with my infected ear, Not with all those half-dressed women Running up and down, no fear. I'll just sit here in the bedroom - Oh and pull the curtains, do, For the sun inflames me headache. It's quite all right for you! You go and have a lovely time. Don't think of me at all. I've got me English paper, You go out and have a ball. You go and have a rave up! Go on! And have a fling! Don't come for me at dinner time, I couldn't eat a thing. Last night I ate that gastro-enteritis on a plate. I thought I'd make it to the Ladies' But no, I was too late. Go on! Enjoy your dinner! Have the fish oil and the wine! But buy some Alka Seltzer: I shall't give you one of mine! I could have been at home now Sitting watching the TV With me hair all washed and set And with the cat sat on me knee. I can't use me heated rollers For the volts are up the creek; And the bath's all full of sand - I haven't had one for a week! Still, it's all right, no it's lovely, And we saved up for a year. Dear Mother, having a lovely time, I wish that you were here. How I let myself be tallked Into a fortnight I dunno. Still you go out - enjoy it! One week down. And one to go. Heart-stopping Romance The Harvest Hymn All is safely gathered in, the barns are filled with grain. Now our thoughts of summer turn to winter once again. The animals of Eden two by two came in the Ark, So can I have a husband now the nights are getting dark? I do not want a handsome man all other girls would crave, One like Auntie Ann's who sent her to an early grave. He took all of her money and whatever else he could grab. She went all round the orchard but she finished up with a crab. In all the mighty multitudes upon the land and sea, Have you got a surplus man who might just do for me? A big one or a small one, white as snow or blak as soot, And preferably one to wait upon me hand and foot. We thank thee for the ears of corn that springe th from the sod And from the paths of righteousness O never have I trod. There was the one occasion when I had that gin and lime And things got out of hand but still I stopped him just in time. I laid aside temptation and I turned the other cheek, The spirit it is willing but the flesh is getting weak. I raise my voice beseechingly and ask with one accord, O please send me a man who looks a bit like Harrison Ford. Love is like a Curry Love is like a curry and I'll explain to you, That love comes in three temperatures, cold, hot and vindaloo, Of course it's like a curry, it cannot be denied, For both are full of spice and both have dishes on the side! Cling to me Nigel Cling to me, Nigel, Oh cling to me, do. There's only one man that I love and it's you. You're handsome and charming, exactly my sort. My only regret is you're two feet too short. I know it's a thing that nobody can help, But I get so tired of addressing your scalp. They say good things come in small parcels it's true, But I've never seen parcels come smaller than you. Oh cling to me, Nigel, we'll kick up our heels, We'll dance round the floor to the jigs and the reels, Although other people may snigger and laugh, For you, my beloved, are too short by half. When I am with you my joy is complete, I'd just like to stretch you a couple of feet, And when we are dancing and whirling around, Oh why is it your feet that come off the ground? When he whispers sweet nothings, I miss what he said, Because I gaze down at the top of his head, But cling to me, Nigel, you have me beguiled, Your ear on my bosom is driving me wild. I bought him a ladder, I bought him a box, I bought fertiliser to stick in his socks, But cling to me, Nigel, although you're not tall, A little one is better than no one at all. Plughole Serenade Would you care to come sailing with me, love, For the wind couldn't puff out a candle. We'll drag the tin bath up the old garden path And you have the end with the handle. Mary Boggis Clark Mary Boggis Clark from the top of Hatcher's End Married Henry Crocker for a mentor and a friend. She clung to Henry Crocker's arm when going for a stroll, For Mary Boggis Clark, she was a nervous little soul. When they were recumbent in their feather marriage bed Henry Crocker reached across to fondle Mary's head. Imagine his surprise when Mary Clark began to scream, Explaining she had just been getting strangled in a dream. And Mary Boggis Clark, she did not improve at all. From seeing faces in the dark and shadows on the wall Mary graduated to hallucinations better And conjured up all kinds of things that came at night to get her; And Henry's fond advances, they were rather brushed aside And Henry's private yearnings - well, they went unsatisfied. Often he would give her a preliminary peck But the old familiar prickling on the back of Mary's neck Would cause her to forget him crying, "Henry! Henry! Hark! I do believe there's someone creeping up here in the dark!" Now very soon it all began to get on Henry's wick. He tired of Mary shouting, "Henry! Henry! Wake up quick!" He tired of groping half asleep at midnight round the room In search of Mary's spectres as they rose up from the gloom. He couldn't hear the bumping or the rattlers and bangers That Mary said was spirits, phantoms, ghouls and doppelgangers. Mary was so nervous it was difficult to leave her Specially as beside the bed she kept the mutton cleaver. With such frequent visitations Henry couldn't keep apace And he watched in mute amazement as she cleave red round the place. Mary went to the pictures just for something fresh to do. She found the film was Werewolf in the Graveyard Meets KungFu. She didn't want to see it and her courage drained away So she sat for ninety minutes trying to look the other way. She came out of the pictures and her face was pale with fright, Darting nervous over-shoulder glances left and right. She scuttled down the cobbles by the green and oily cut' Thinking she was safely home to Henry Crocker. But . . . She saw a figure moving on the water's other side - A young man crept in view, his eyes were panicky and wide, He stared at Mary Boggis Clark and jumped and cried, "Oh no!" And cringed beneath the street lamp in its pale and ghostly glow. Mary strained her eyes to see, for all the lane was dim. She knew that she was scared but she was not as scared as him, She stepped across the bridge and laid her hand upon his arm For he was white and frightened . . . but he had a certain charm. "Good lady," cried the man, "That you should see me in this state, I never should have ventured from my home this far, this late; For what handicaps my life and makes me eminently kick able Is my fear of the supernatural and inexplicable." He said, "I cannot walk the street or anywhere at all Without this constant fear that round the back of every wall, Listening for footsteps, crouched in menacing positions, Are poltergeists and spooks and paranormal apparitions, And once outside my door, I found the sign; the Living Proof For printed in the garden, there it was, the Cloven Hoofœ Although I will admit this theory was placed in doubt For it coincided with the day me bullocks all got out, Fear is what I live with of the most iDogic kind, Fear of being suddenly ga rotted from behind, Fear of hooded phantoms that across the water float To nod and wink and clench their bony fingers round me throat." Mary gazed about her and her face was white with joy And she told him, "you are not alone, I'm just the same . . . my boy." And they began to tremble now the wondrous truth was known. They trembled both at once and then he trembled on his own. "Oh," sighed Mary Boggis Clark with unrestrained relief, "I am so greatly comforted, for it was my belief That all through life alone I must these apparitions meet. Come with me and we'll throw Henry's things out in the street. I know he is my husband but alas! the outlook's grim. Statistics prove if someone's going to murder me . . . it's him!" "But I'm scared of my own shadow!" wailed the man and hung his head But Mary Boggis Clark said, "So am I," and they were wed! And went on honeymoon where in the warm and sunny weather, Hand in hand for life, they will be seeing things together. Like You Would Well, I got up in the morning, Like you would. And I cooked a bit of breakfast, Like you would. But at the door I stopped, For a message had been dropped, And I picked it up, and read it, Like you would. "Oh, Blimey!" I said, Like you would. "Have a read of this, This is good!" It said: "I live across the way, And admire you every day, And my heart, it breaks without you." Well, it would. It said: "I'd buy you furs and jewels, If I could." And I go along with that, I think he should. It said: "Meet me in the park, When it's good and dark, And so me wife won't see, I'll wear a hood." Oh, I blushed with shame and honror, Like you would. That a man would ask me that, As if I could! So I wrote him back a letter, Saying, "No, I think it's better If I meet you in the Rose and Crown, Like we did last Thursday." I Fell for a Black and White Minstrel I fell for a black and white minstrel, He tickled me under the chin. What I wanted to say was "You go away" But I actually said "Oh . . . come in." In a minute I was captivated, I had not a second to think. What I could not erase, as I gazed in his face, Was "What does he look like . . . pink!" We went to his lodgings in Clapham, Ostensibly we went for tea. Only I kept on sort of looking at him, And he kept sort of looking at me, And the thing with a black and white minstrel, They're not like a man who is clean. If you've covered your chest with a pearly white vest, You can very soon see where he's been. He sang me "Oh dem Golden Slippers!" He danced me a pulsatin' dance, With his muscular thighs, and his white-circled eyes, A maiden like me stood no chance. He flung off his gold lame jacket, And likewise his silver top hat. He cared not a fig, as he tore off his wig, And I'm telling you no more than that. But too early the traffic grew louder, And I knew that it had to be dawn. I reached for me black and white minstrel, But me black and white minstrel had gorn. I sat all alone in the morning, Not wanting to understand, That I had been only a plaything, I was only a pawn . . . in his hand. To this day I still cherish the pillow, Where my black and white minstrel did lie. There was one little place where he laid his black face, And one where he laid his white eye. Me black and white minstrel has left me, Gone! with never Goodbye, But my heart will be with him in Clapham, Till the waters of Swannee run dry. Will anybody Marry me? Will anybody marry me? I would not cost him dear. I am in perfect nick And good condition for the year. He would not have to be a Mr World Built like Fort Knox, For I would do the plastering And saw up all the blocks. will anybody marry me? I would be awful sweet. I'd let him knock me glasses off And kick them down the street. And I would not be a nagger, Saying "Will you paint the pelmet?" And if he was a fireman I would never dent his helmet. Concerning older girls Our inhibitions have all gone And me dad's an electrician So I'd really turn him on. Now I cannot give my telephone That's hazardous I know But if anyone will have me It is Bognor 410. A Tale of Two Settees It was down at the furniture warehouse, As I wandered one morning in May, To buy a set tee for the woodworm Had eaten me old one away. It was there in a flash that I saw him In front of the chip board veneer. His Levis and shirt were covered in dirt And he had a gold stud in his ear. I did not let on that I'd seen him Oh no, for I played hard to get, Deliberating by the vinyl And stroking the uncut moquette. But he casually walked over to me And seductively murmured, "Oi, Oi," And there in the furniture warehouse I said, "Well . . . you are a tall boy!" He said, "Can I be of assistance? Or offer a little advice? Now if it's a sofa you're after Well, this one's especially nice, Upholstered in sultry black leather And done round the edges in chrome, And I know it withstands shocking treatment For I happen to have one at home." Oh I know it was wrong but I liked him; I knew he would lead me astray. And yet as the sun caught his earring, I heard myself saying, "Okay." When he asked me to go to the pictures And ignoring the customers' glares I said, "Is it Studio One then or Two?" He said, "Studio Three. That's upstairs." So I met him that Saturday evening, I went all dressed up in me prime. He brought me a fragile white orchid And a drink on a stick at half time. He bought me a carton of popcorn, He smiled as I prised up the lid. "Oh thank you," I said to him softly, And he laughed and said, "Stick with me . . . kid." We went for a Chinese and there in the dark To the clang of the Chinese top ten, "Your beauty,"' he said, 'has gone to my head With the sweet and sour pork." Oh and then He said, "Darlin' it's wrong but I'll ask you, Oh, make all my cravings complete. Instead of just buying a sofa Why don't you invest in a suite?" This and That The Ballad of the Bungleclud In the marshes, thick with mud Lies the dreadful Bungleclud In the bog up to his eyes There he watches, there he spies. Still, except for fingers drumming, Looking out for people coming. Bunglecluds are large and hairy And their eyes are quick and wary, Watching out for signs of joggers, Ice-cream men or stray hot-doggers, English teachers, you or me, Or anyone to have for tea. Bunglecluds are dark and wrinkled And their tails are long and crinkled. On their ears are tufts of hair That twitch and flicker everywhere, And both their nostrils red and flared Are good for making people scared. But oh, his mouth so wide and black With great big tonsils down the back And jagged teeth from left to right, No fillings, caps or crowns in sight, And Bunglebreath so foul and smelly Turns most people's knees to jelly. Lying in the mud so long Causes Bunglecluds to pong. When it gets too much to bear Up they get and out they tear, Climbing madly up the trees To have an airing in the breeze. When Bunglecluds no longer hum, Down to earth refreshed, they come. They promenade along the grass And to Bunglecluds they pass Enquire "How is your sainted Mother?" And sweetly smile at one another. Bunglecluds are rarely seen, But anywhere that mud is green And deep and dark and nasty smelling, Go with caution! There's no telling! Bubbles rising from the deep Could mean a Bungleclud . . . Asleep! John Joe Polonio John Joe Polonio, he loved to wear a hat, He had a balaclava, he was ever so fond of that, He had a boater made of straw for wearing on a punt, And he also had a turban with a diamond on the front. He had a hat like Turpin when he cried "Stand and deliver!" Another one like Nelson which would make your timbers shiver, A topper for that smart occasion made him look a toff, And a bowler for the office, he could wear it on or off. He had a jolly sailor's hat for swabbing of the deck, A Foreign Legion hat to keep the sunshine off his neck, A bathing cap for when he was considering a swim, And a stove-pipe hat like Lincoln, (but it wasn't really him.) He loved to wear a Stetson hat straight from the USA, And a battered old hill-billy hat for raking up the hay. In leather hat and goggles he was Biggles in his kite, While in a sheet with eye-holes he could give his Mum a fright! He wore a tamashanter resting lightly on his scalp, A hat from Switzerland in which to yodel on an Alp, A brightly coloured jockey's cap for riding home the winner, And a chef's hat, stiffly starched, for when he had to cook the dinner. When John Joe got married, his poor bride was in despair. He could not make up his mind which hat he ought to wear: This one, that one, small one, flat one, long or short or tall, He just did not know, so in the end . . . he wore them all! I wrote this for a Dump Old Drugs campaign. I was always rather tickled by it! Dump It! Have you, in your cupboards dusty, medicines grown old and fusty, Kept for some forgotten pain, in case it should come back again? Or tablets very kindly lent, by whatsisname wherever he went, Which cured his sinus like a charm, but never touched your broken arm? Take the packages so neat, the courses you did not complete, Any job that's now been jobbed, for anything that ached or throbbed, Soothing jars of ancient unction, meant for bits that ceased to function, Any joint that loudly creaked, or any part of you that leaked. Oh dump it, dump it, dump it all, far away from fingers small, And older folk who get confused. Take any drug that's partly used, Any ointment, pills or potion, linctus, liniment or lotion, Resolutely in your fist and dump it on your pharmacist. For drugs and poisons it is true, are safer far with him than you. Tiger, Tiger The tiger that stalks through the night Delivers a hideous bite And there on his paws Are hideous claws But apart from all that, he's all right! In 1978, the Health and Safety Executive launched a campaign aimed at reducing the number of injuries sustained by children playing on building sites. I was sent an horrific list of accidents which had befallen these children and I was asked to contribute something in verse form to the campaign. This was my reason for writing "Building Sites Bite!" Building Sites Bite! This is a horror story And it's worse because it's true. Dan Sandheap and Fred the Hole Have come to talk to you. Claude the concrete mixer, Mick the Brick and Cable Man Have come here from a building site To warn you if they can. Claude the concrete mixer Came up shuffling to the front. He said, "All day on building sites It's back and forth I shunt. The work men prop me up And rush away to eat their lunch. So you play under me So I can fall upon you . . . CRUNCH!" Fred the Hole spoke up, His voice as deep as any grave. "Climb in me one rainy day And down the walls will cave! I trap you in the bottom Where no one can hear you shout Or see you in the mud and muck Nor run to get you out." Dan the sand heap piped up with, "They think they're at the sea When they spy my lovely sand, They run and climb on me And then I tumble down on them, All slippery and seething. I cover them in sand and soon I can't feel any breathing...." For bilding sites are dangerous - Great lorries rush about And just one lick from Mick the Brick Is sure to knock you out. Cable Man said, "I'm just one Bare wire here alone But touch me with your fingers And I'll burn you skin and bone." On building sites these horrid creatures live And many more, So plEase don't play on building sites, It's not what they are for. They're full of danger everywhere Scattered all about. Too many children venture in And never come back out. The Animal Kingdom A word to those planning to keep sheep: Fleeced I bought a flock of sheep because my garden seemed so bare, I thought they'd eat the grass and add a touch of interest there. The soil was alkali, oh there were mice and there were ants, So I thought I'd get some sheep because the frost had my chrysanths. First they ate the grass and then the borders and the shrubs, The blue and white lobelia, the al pines in the tubs. I had to get some grazing to accommodate my sheep, With a shelter and a water trough and none of it came cheap. Now I love my little flock but I have had to come to terms With dipping, shearing, dagging, dosing, drenching them for worms. And on a winter's afternoon not dozing by the fire, But trying to free a sheep that's got its head stuck in the wire. And then they get diseases, they get fluke and they get mange, They get foot rot they get orf, they might get scrapie for a change, And when it comes to lambing time the nights are cold and black, With just you, the soapy water and a lamb with both legs back. Consider very carefully before you buy a sheep. They need constant supervision and you won't get any sleep. You'll have to pay the rent, the vet, the drugs, the food, the licks, And you'll have to be adept at extricating bloated ticks. If you keep a ram, yes, he'll look noble in the clover, But when your back is turned he'll do his best to knock you over. But if without a flock of sheep you'll waste away and pine, Then come and talk to me as I should like to give you mine! How God Made the Duck-Billed Platypus The duck-billed platypus, small aquatic friend, Made from the pieces God had over at the end. According to His reckoning (He'd not been wrong before) He hadn't made enough: He needed one mammal more. He studied all the corners in his cupboard large and bare, A little foot here, and a little nose there, A scrap of fur, a feather, nothing anyone would miss And God said, "Oh Good God . . . Yes? . . . What can I make out of this?" There was a funny flat tail and a great enormous beak Which had lain in the cupboard for a year and a week, There were four webbed feet in the manner of a duck And hanging on a peg a furry overcoat for luck! So the turn of the platypus came to be fitted. God sat him down and he honestly admitted That the finished platypus might appear a little odd, "But look on the bright side of it," said God. "You can swim in the river, you can paddle in the creek, You can tackle anybody with a great big beak, There's a tail for a rudder or alternatively legs And by way of consolation you've got babies and eggs." So God took all the pieces into Workshop One And there he told the men the sort of thing he wanted done. The Carpenter and Plumber stroked the platypus's neck And said, "Don't you upset him, he can't run but he can peck!" So the platypus was made, and his beak was firmly rooted, And God found him a home where he would not be persecuted. They packed him up and sent him with his tail neatly furled In a brown paper parcel marked "Australia, The World". I'm a Starling . . . me Darling We're starlings, the missis, me self and the boys. We don't go round hoppin', we walks. We don't go in for this singing all day And twittering about, we just squawks. We don't go in for these fashionable clothes Like old Missel Thrush, and his spots. Me breast isn't red, there's no crest on me head, We've got sort of, hard wearing . . . dots. We starlings, the missis, me self and the boys, We'll eat anything that's about, Well, anything but that old half coconut, I can't hold it still. I falls out. What we'd rather do is wait here for you To put out some bread for the tits, And then when we're certain you're there by the curtain, We flocks down and tears it to bits. But we starlings, the missis, me self and the boys, We reckon that we're being got at. You think for two minutes, them finches and linnets, You never sees them being shot at. So the next time you comes out to sprinkle the crumbs out, And there's starlings there, making a noise, Don't you be so quick to heave half a brick, It's the missis, me self and the boys! The Rat Resuscitation Rhyme I found a dead rat in our woodshed, I found it at quarter to eight. I tried to give it the kiss of life But I'd left it ten minutes too late. In Defence of Hedgehogs I am very fond of hedgehogs Which makes me want to say That I am struck with wonder How there's any left today. For each morning as I travel, And no short distance that, All I see are hedgehogs, Squashed. And dead. And flat. Now, hedgehogs are not clever, No, hedgehogs are quite dim And when he sees your head lamps Well it don't occur to him That the very wisest thing to do Is up and run away. No! he curls up in a stupid ball And no doubt starts to pray. Well, motor cars do travel At a most alarming rate, And by the time you sees him, It is very much too late. And thus he gets a-squasho'd, Unrecorded but for me, With me pen and paper, Sittin' in a tree. It is statistically proven, In chapter and in verse, That in a car-and-hedgehog fight, The hedgehog comes off worse. When whistlin' down your prop shaft, And bouncin' off your diff, His coat of nice brown prickles Is not effect-iff. A hedgehog cannot make you laugh, Whistle, dance or sing, And he ain't much to look at, And he don't make anything, And in amongst his prickles, There's fleas and bugs and that, But there ain't no need to leave him, Squashed. And dead. And flat. Oh, spare a thought for hedgehogs, Spare a thought for me, Spare a thought for hedgehogs, As you drink your cup of tea. Spare a thought for hedgehogs, Hoverin' on the brinkt, Spare a thought for hedgehogs, Lest they become extinct. The Battery Hen Oh, I am a battery hen, On me back there's not a germ, I never scratched a farmyard, And I never pecked a worm. I never had the sunshine To warm me feathers through. Eggs I lay. Every day. For the likes of you. When you has them scrambled, Piled up on your plate, It's me what you should thank for that. I never lays them late, I always lays them reglar, I always lays them right, I never lays them brown, I always lays them white. But it's no life for a battery hen, In me box I'm sat, A funnel stuck out from the side, Me pellets comes down that. I gets a squirt of water, Every half a day, Watchin' with me beady eye, Me eggs roll away. I lays them in a funnel, Strategically placed So that I don't kick 'em And let them go to waste. They rolls off down the tubing And up the gangway quick. Sometimes I gets to thinkin', "That could have been a chick!" I might have been a farmyard hen Scratchin' in the sun. There might have been a crowd of chicks, After me to run. There might have been a cockerel fine To pay us his respects, Instead of sittin' here, Till someone comes and wrings our necks. I see the Time and Motion clock Is sayin' nearly noon. I 'spec me squirt of water Will come flyin' at me soon. And then me spray of pellets Will nearly break my leg, And I'll bite the wire nettin' And lay one more bloody egg. The Hegg A thrush, disconsolate, with no sign of a mate, Sat morbidly perched in a tree, Saying, "I tell the tale Of a flighty young male, Who have done the dirty on me. "I'm Hexpecting a Hegg, a Hillicit Hegg, A Hegg lye th here, in my breast. While the trees were bright-leaved I rashly conceived A Hegg, Houtside of the Nest. "For my deed I am shunned, and left moribund, And by all I am left on a limb. I would give my right wing To be rid of this thing, And for my great girth to be slim." Just then a black crow, with his black eyes a-glow, Boldly down to the thrush flew, Said, "The grapevine, I've heard, Tells of a distressed bird, Which I've reason to think may be you." He stood on one leg, said, "You're having an Egg And the other birds feel you are bad. But if with me you came, You'd be free of the shame, Of having an Egg with no Dad. "For a nominal fee, I will take you to see My friend, who lives up the back doubles. If you swear not to fail To pay on the nail, He will duff up the source of your troubles!" So the thrush, unafraid, assented and paid, And went under cover of night To see an old Bustard, with gin and with mustard, And to be relieved of her plight. She was made to sit in a bathful of gin, And she was obliging and meek. She was made to consume Some soap and a prune, And her feathers fell out for a week. Outside on the bough, she said, "Look at me now, Of my Hegg I am freed, but I'm Hill, And if Hagain I stray Without naming the day Then first I shall go on the Pill.' Pam Ayres and the Embarrassing Experience with the Parrot At the Cotswold Wild Life Park, In the merry month of May, I paid the man the money, And went in to spend the day. Straightway to the Pets Corner I turned my eager feet, To go and see the rabbits And give them something to eat. As I approached the hutches, I was alarmed to see A crowd of little yobbos, 'Ollerin' with glee. I crept up close behind them And weighed the scene up quick, And saw them poke the rabbits, Poke them! . . . with a stick! "Get off, you little devils!" I shouted in their ear. "Don't you poke them rabbits, That's not why they are here." I must have really scared them, In seconds they were gone, And feelin' I had done some good, I carried on along. Till up beside the Parrots' Cage, I stood to view the scene. They was lovely parrots, Beautiful blue and green. In and out the nest box They was really having fun, Squawking out and flying about, All except for one. One poor old puffed-up parrot Clung grimly to his perch, And as the wind blew front wards Backwards he would lurch. One foot up in his feathers, Abandoned by the rest, He sat there, plainly dying, His head upon his chest. Well, I walked on down the pathway And I stroked a nanny goat, But the thought of parrots dyin' Brought a lump into me throat. I could no longer stand it And to the office I fled. Politely I began "S'cuse me, Your parrot's nearly dead." So me and a curator, In urgent leaps and bounds, With a bottle of Parrot Cure, Dashed across the grounds. The dust flew up around us As we reached the Parrots' Pen, And the curator he turned to me, Saying, "Which one is it then?" You know what I am going to say He was not there at all, At least, not where I left him. No, he flew from wall to wall, As brightly as a button Did he squawk and jump and leap. The curator was very kind, Saying, "I expect he was asleep." But I was humiliated As I stood before the wire. The curator went back To put his feet up by the fire, So I let the parrot settle, And after a short search, I found the stick the yobbos had, And poked him off his perch. The Stuffed Horse There was a stuffed horse what had died, And the townspeople stood it with pride On a plinth in the Square, And the shoppers went there, And sat, for a rest, by its side. Beneath the stuffed horse was a plaque, Only vandals had painted it black, What told of the deed Of the glorious steed, And the General, what rode on its back. The bold horse, with never a care, Had ducked cannonballs in the air, And stood to the end By the General, his friend, Which was why he was put in the Square. Well, his tail it was stuck out with wire, And paint made his nostrils afire, And his bold eye of glass Gazed upon concrete grass, When he met with his fate, what was dire. This night from the shadows a-fidget Extended a beckonin' digit. A voice whispered, "Right," And into the night Rushed ten men, a saw and a midget. They lay by the horse with no word, And the soft sound of sawing was heard. In silence, all night, Stuffin' flew left and right, And into a sack was transferred. When the church clock struck quarter to four, Ten men ran away, and a saw. But the midget, my friend, Was not there at the end, He was with his companions no more. When morning it broke on the Square, You would never have known they'd been there, For the horse gazed away, Like the previous day, Just sniffin' the spring in the air. But walkin' across to the spot Came two ladies whose feet had grown hot. They sat on the ground, And one got out a pound, Saying "Here's that quid I owed to you, Dot." From the back of the stuffed horse's throat Came a hand and it snatched the pound note. With the hand, and the cash, The jaws shut with a clash, And the horse gazed away with a gloat. The lady was helped off to bed. "I thought they liked hay, dear," she said. No one listened, of course, For it was a stuffed horse What never required to be fed. But it happened again, the next day, When a vicar had sat down to pray, He said, "Lord, bless my flock," When a great lead-filled sock Took his senses, and wallet, away. But by now the long arm of the law Started pickin' up pieces of straw, What might have been nothin' But could have been stuffin' And random observers, they saw. That the stuffed horse's eye, though of glass, Had seemed to be watchin' them pass And sometimes would blink Or give you a wink, As if to say, "Step on my grass." Hadrian of the Yard, he was called, He was like Fabian, only bald. He said, "I'll be an idiot, If there's not a midgiot Inside of the stuffed horse installed.' And indeed, that great sleuth, he was right. By Caesarean, they caught him that night, With ten men and a saw He had broken the law Illegal entry, all right. But tragic indeed was the scene In the place where the stuffed horse had been. Bandy-legged and defaced, He had to be replaced By an ordinary bust of the Queen. Puppy Problems I bought myself a puppy And I hoped in time he might Become my friend and ward off Things that go bump in the night So I put him in a shoe box And at home I took him out And then began to learn What owning puppies is about. I tried so hard to love him And I didn't rave or shout As he bit into the sofa And he dragged the stuffing out. I gave him things to chew But soon I couldn't fail to see That he liked the things he found More than the things supplied by me. He frayed my lovely carpet That I'd saved my pennies for And when he wasn't chewing He was weeing on the floor, Nor did he spare the table leg, That came in for a gnaw. Though I told him off the message Never seemed to reach his jaw. We laboured at the gardening, Me and my little pup. At two I planted flowers And at four he dug them up. He liked to dig, he'd bury bones And pat it down so neat And then he'd rush indoors As clods of mud flew off his feet. I bought a book on training And I read it all one night, And when we set off out I really thought we'd got it right With tit bits in my coat To give him once he got the knack But he didn't, so I couldn't, So I ate them coming back. When I commanded "Heel!" He never seemed to take the point But galloped on half-strangled, Tugging my arm out of joint. He jumped up people's clothes, The cleaning bills I had to pay! And when I shouted "Here!" He turned and ran the other way. One day I drove him over And I gave him to my Dad, Who welcomed him and trained him But it left me very sad. So I thought I'd let you know In case a pup's in store for you That it's very wise indeed To have a Dad who likes dogs too. Clamp the Mighty Limpet I am Clamp the Mighty Limpet, I am solid, I am stuck, I am welded to the rock face With my superhuman suck. I live along the waterline And in the dreary caves. I am Clamp the Mighty Limpet! I am Ruler of the Waves. What care I for the shingle, For the dragging of the tide With my unrelenting sucker And my granite underside? There's only one reward For those who come to prise at me And that's to watch their fingernails As they go floating out to sea. Don't cross me, I'm a limpet, Though it's plankton I devour. Be very, very careful I can move an inch an hour! Don't you poke or prod me For I warn you - if you do, You stand there for a fortnight And I'll come and stick on you! The Bunny Poem I am a bunny rabbit Sitting in me hutch. I like to sit up this end, I don't care for that end much. I'm glad tomorrow's Thursday, 'Cause with a bit of luck, As far as I remember That's the day they pass the buck. The Wasp he is a Nasty One The wasp he is a nasty one He scavenges and thrives, Unlike the honest honey bee He doesn't care for hives. He builds his waxy nest Then brings his mates from near and far To sneak in to your house When you have left the door ajar. Then sniffing round for jam he goes In every pot and packet, Buzzing round the kitchen In his black and yellow jacket. If with a rolled-up paper He should spot you creeping near, He'll do a backward somersault And sting you on the ear! You never know with wasps, You can't relax, not for a minute. Whatever you pick up - Look out! A wasp might still be in it. You never even know If there's a wasp against your chest, For wasps are very fond Of getting folded in your vest. And he always comes in summer. In the wintertime he's gone When you never go on picnics And you've put a jersey on. What other single comment Causes panic and despair Like someone saying, "Keep still! There's a wasp caught in your hair!" But in a speeding car He finds his favourite abode. He likes poor Dad to swat like mad And veer across the road. He likes to watch Dad's face As all the kids begin to shout, "Dad! I don't like wasps! Oh where's he gone, Dad? Get him out!" And I'd like to make a reference To all the men who say, "Don't antagonise it And the wasp will go away," For I've done a little survey To see if it will or won't, And they sting you if you hit them And they sting you if you don't. As we step into the sunshine Through the summers and the springs, Carrying our cardigans And nursing all our stings, I often wonder, reaching for the blue bag Just once more, If all things have a purpose What on earth can wasps be for? m A Card Through The Door Good Luck in Your Exam Against your every answer May the teacher place a tick, And if by chance he doesn't, Well, you can't help being thick! Get Well Soon I hope you have recovered And your legs are out of plaster. Your wife's moved in with me So don't get better any faster! On Your Wedding Good luck on your wedding day, I think you're bold and plucky, And as the other two have failed, Let's hope it's third time lucky! As You Retire Now can you release the weary tiller, The ship of life, with you upon the prow, Is heaving to at last in calmer waters, In other words you're on the scrap heap now. Travel I wrote this after I read a report that an airline pilot, with his aircraft on automatic pilot, had fallen asleep at the controls and had to be woken by members of the crew! No Alarm on the Flight Deck We're on automatic pilot and the lights are soft and low, The passengers are sleeping wrapped in blankets, row on row, But I'm on full alert on every aeroplane I take. One question always haunts me: "Is the pilot still awake?" Up beyond the curtain is he slumped at the controls, Sleeping like a baby with an aircraft full of souls? Are we in his Jumbo, DC-10 or one eleven On a one way ticket not to Sydney but to Heaven? Has he got a little bedside table for his cash? Does he put his slippers on and cross them on the dash? As the automatic pilot steers us out across the deep, Does he slacken off his tie and gently fall asleep? Droning through the cumulus, dancing with the dawn, Does the pilot shift a little, stretch himself and yawn? As the sun appears, flirtatious, pink upon the brow, Does he idly wonder "Where the blazes are we now?" Does he struggle upright, shrugging on his pilot's coat, And chipper to the crew say "Well, the old bus stayed afloat!" As the panorama is unfurling underneath, Is he lifting up the glass and fishing out his teeth? As a ray of sun illuminates the line of dials, Does he rub his eyes and say "Good grief! We've done some miles!"? Seeing his co-pilot does he gently pat his hand, And softly say "Wake up! I think we're coming in to land!"? Bronzed and manly pilot, here's a message from the rear, Do not fall asleep for we're all counting on you here. Keep your wits about you as you circle, as you climb, So we can die of fright when coming back in six weeks' time. Ayers Rock Daybreak over Ayers Rock - The Centre's breath was hated. Snakes slid down their tunnels And a huntsman spider waited. Little grieving red backs wandered, Never could they rest: Searching, ever searching For the seat they loved the best. But an enigmatic figure Stood beside the Uluru, With one lip curled in scorn The way the real explorers do. The day was growing hotter But she calmly scanned the skies, Covered up with "Aeroguard" And half-a-million flies. She wore her expedition clothes - She'd planned this day for months: The shorts that Burke and Wills Could both have travelled in at once, The tennis shoes Bjorn Borg Had signed along the side - Behold! Pam Ayres the mountaineer! Oh! Speak her name with pride! I set out from the Uluru All in my digger's hat, And forty others set out But we won't go into that. I scaled the mighty mountainside And folks we chanced to meet Cried out, "Here comes Pam Ayres! She must have suckers on her feet!" I was frank and I was fearless, I threw away my coat And, lunging for the summit, I was like a mountain goat, A party from Whyalla Was clinging to the chain And hollered down the line, "She's overtaking us . . . again!" But the vista from the summit Was a marvel to behold. I signed the special book Although my hands were stiff with cold. The mighty Olgas slumbered on So beautiful and round As though a giant horse had paused To fertilise the ground. Yet as I stood surveying This extraordinary place, I thought I felt a drop of rain Roughly smite me face. The skies began to open, My heart began to sink And in five minutes time Ayers Rock was like a skating rink. The Bjorn Borgs were sodden, They'd cost me oh so dear! He might have helped on the Centre Court But he couldn't help me here. I couldn't get a purchase! I couldn't get a grip! And everywhere I placed me feet Me feet began to slip! There was nothing to hold on to! I quickly gave up hope. In my imagination I fell screaming down the slope. I heard me mother weeping As she clutched my digger's hat, I heard the poets of the world Say, "Thank the Lord for that!" I said to my companion, "Will you see I get a plaque? Not the dental kind, The one for not arriving back. Fix it high above the road, Write `Poet of Renown: Pam Ayres the Ayers Rock heroine Who slipped up coming down`." But no, I did not falter, Though my shoes had lost their soles, Though the shorts that Burke and Wills Could both have worn were shot with holes. But if I hadn't made it And downward had been hurled, At least I would have had The biggest headstone in the world! Hello Australia, Hello! Oh, it's nice to be back in Australia - I wanted to see it again. I came on the Sydney Tomorrow Bird, Though I'd half expected a 'plane. As we came sweeping over the harbour, The sunset was close on our heels Over Mountains Blue, Woolloomooloo, And Harry's Cafe de Wheels. Oh, it's nice to be back in Australia, The land of the Desert Pea - If it's good enough for Edna Then it's good enough for me. It's the land of Banjo Paterson, The shearing shed, the flock - He's the man from Snowy River, I'm the woman from Ayers' Rock. Oh, pass me that Pavlova All drenched in kiwi fruit, And drive me out in the mulga With a roo bar on the ute, And underneath a stringy bark I'll see what passes through - A currawong might fly along And the odd thorn-bird or two. Oh, the Lamingtons bloom in Sydney And food no one can resist, Which might be why each man goes by With a meat pie in his fist. I'm glad to be back in Australia And it'll be beaut I know. If I see you about, I'll pick up the shout, Hello, Australia, Hello! Lost in Transit I left my heart in Australia, I left my knees in Japan, I left my liver Up the Yangtze River And I'm only half a man. Hello Long Distance, Is That You? Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello? Oh, hello Mum! It's me! Hello! How are you keeping? Yes, I can. Can you hear me? How is everybody? Alright? Yes and we are too. It's twenty-five past seven here - What time is it with you? Ay? Dad would like a word? Oh, he's just coming on, I see. Hello! How are you Dad? Oh yes I can. Can you hear me? How is everybody? Alright? Yes, and we are too. Twenty-five past seven, Dad, What time is it with you? Well, Dad, how's the weather? How's the weather, nice I s'pose? I said how-is-the-weather? How's the WEATHER? (Stone the crows!) Dad? Just call to Mum, I think she's on the bedroom 'phone. I can't hear you both. Tell her to leave that one alone. Ay? Who asked me that? Was that you Dad? Oh, it was Mum. Twenty-five past seven here - Rain? We have had some, It rained up to the Wednesday 'Cause I had the ear ache And then it brightened up . . . No! It was Thursday (my mistake.) We had this thunderstorm: It scared us all out of our wits. Oh, it upset Mrs White - That Mrs White who has the fits . . . no, FITS! Hello? I thought I'd lost you - No, I'd got the dialling tone. Try not to shout so loud Dad. Dad? Why don't you use the phone? All right then, better go then Or we shall't afford the bill. Just gone half-past-seven, Dad, So long then . . . Yes we will. All the best, mind how you go And Dad? Stay off the booze! Enjoy the rain, I'll ring again Next time I've got some news. progress The Unisex Salon O hand me down the aspirin, the warm sustaining tea. Hold my feeble shaking hand and try to comfort me. I went to have my hair done, I shall never go again. They've made the salon unisex. They've started doing MEN! A MAN was at the basin, leaning confidently back, Though I hope like me it made his neck feel fit to crack. I had to step across him, I can see his trainers yet, And seeing him, I felt myself bedraggled, plain and wet. What's he doing here with us, breathing healthy spray, Watching the assistants as they give the game away? We come to be coloured, streaked and tenderly blow dried, And permed and titivated and WE WANT THAT MAN OUTSIDE! Men should be in a barber's shop in a great big barber's chair, Where a great big barber plies his trade in a great big pile of hair, Where the carburettor's King, the wicket and the goal, And men are in their rightful place beneath the barber's pole. The Curlers Poem A set of heated rollers Is every maid's delight. It stops you wearing curlers In the middle of the night. It keeps you looking spick and span, When all the rest are not, And though your hands are freezing cold, Your head is nice and hot. This is a story about frogs who each year, in order to breed, journey back to the pond in which they were hatched. To these small creatures, motor ways are a major obstacle. St Giles' Fair used to arrive in Oxford each year on an endless convoy of slow vehicles. The Frogmarch Move along the kerb stone there And get back into line. I know we've all been sitting here Since twenty-five past nine. I've been doing a traffic census, And with no more hesitation, I reckon by tonight, We'll reach the central reservation. Now, I don't want my tactics Criticised no more today. I realise that everybody Knew a better way. But you are simple country folk, You do not often come In contact with these heavy lorries Rattling down to Brum. I know that when compared To boggy riverbanks and peat, That M40 motorway Was murder on your feet. I also know that in the usual Places where we sit, We don't stand up to find Our underneath stuck up with grit. Course, life for us amphibians Is getting very harsh. Take the Witney by-pass, It used to be a marsh. They've irrigated all the land, It's all gone to the dogs. You get fantastic drainage, But you don't get any frogs. Still, keep your wits about you lads, And before we're very much older, We'll hop straight in the Promised Land, And straight off this hard shoulder. All the female frogs are there, Tarting up the bower, I'D give them that, they're very good, That Sutton Coldfield shower. Right then, watch the traffic, 'Cause I think I see a gap. Wake old sleeping beauty up, His head sunk in his lap, Get your bits and pieces then, Is everybody there? Look left! . . . Prepare to spring! Oh, no . . . here comes St Giles's Fair. I am a Cunnin' Vending Machine I am a cunnin' vending machine Lurkin' in the hall, So you can't kick me delicate parts I'm bolted to the wall. Come on! Drop in your money, Don't let's hang about. I'll do my level best to see You don't get nothing out. I sees you all approachin', The fag less and the dry, All fumblin' in your pockets, And expectant in the eye. I might be in your place of work, Or on the High Street wall. Trust in me! In theory, I cater for you all. Within these windows I provide For every human state: Hunger, night starvation, And remembering birthdays late. Just read the information, Pop the money in - that's grand, And I'll see absolutely nothing Ever drops down In your hand. I might be at your swimming bath, And you'd come, cold and wet, With some money in your hand, Some hot soup for to get. And as you stand in wet Anticipation of a sup, I will dispense the soup, But I will not dispense the cup. And then it's all-out war, Because you lost your half-a-nicker. Mighty kicks and blows with bricks Will make me neon flicker. But if you bash me up, So I'm removed, me pipes run dry, There's no way you can win, I'll send me brother by and by. Once there was friendly ladies, Years and years before, Who stood with giant teapots, Saying, "What can I do you for?" They'd hand you all the proper change, And pour your cup of tea, But they're not economic so . . . Hard luck! You're stuck with me. Walk with me for a Perch and a Rood I don't want metrication, friends, The miligramme and litre. I work in feet and inches, I do not trust the metre. I cannot calculate it, I don't know where I am. Give me half a hundredweight And you can have a gramme. Metrication? I can't learn it, I'm too long in the tooth. My school days they are over, Gorn! with the bloom of youth. I work in tenths of inches, The furlong and the chain, The rood and pole, the six-foot hole, I like it nice and plain. I like it by the furlong, And I like it by the acre, I liked the baker's dozen, And I also liked the baker. I liked the bushel basket, And a peck's alright by me. Them metrics put the prices up As far as I can see. I didn't want the decimals, I don't want metrication, I wouldn't know a litre If you poured it in a basin. I'll have my pints and gallons As long as I am able. My glass I'll fill with a sixth of a gill, And I'll see you under the table! A-Z Driving in London's my pleasure I prize it above any other. One hand on the wheel, The fingers like steel, And the A-Z clenched In the other. The Patter of Tiny Feet The Pregnancy Poem Dear Mum, I have achieved the state Of pregnancy at last. I know you thought that I Had let my chances fritter past. I know you had despaired Of seeing any child of mine But Mother! I have cracked it At the age of ninety-nine! I'm diligently going to The ante-natal classes. They've issued me a card To get me free false teeth and glasses. They've got a practice baby You can bath and put to bed. It's only made of rubber, You can drop it on its head. I'm taking vitamins In case my diet is in doubt. I'm taking Brewers Yeast To stop my hair from falling out. I'm drinking pints of milk Because the calcium they say Will give him mighty fangs As he goes gnashing on his way. I'm eating meat and fish and eggs And bread with whole meal flour, And every afternoon I put me feet up for an hour. I practise relaxation To reduce the labour pains, And wear elastic stockings To un varicose me veins. I've bought a fancy pram In which to push him round the place. I'm rigging up a net To keep the cat from off his face. I've bought a safety harness So he cannot up and flee When he's looking for his Mother And he notices it's me. You asked me how I am, Mum, And I mustn't carry on. I'm not sick every morning And the rash is nearly gone. I get a bit of backache And me ankles tend to swell, But apart from heartburn, cramp And sleepless nights, I'm very well. Well Mum, that's all for now Because I've got so much to do And every twenty minutes I am rushing to the . . . garden. I thought I'd write a letter Just to tell you how I am. From me, your ever-loving daughter, Pregnant Poet Pam. Mirror Song Who's that boy in the mirror? Who can that little boy be? He's always there when I'm there And he looks a lot like me. Oh! When I wear my blue trousers He wears his too And that little boy's Mummy She looks a lot like you. A Song Where Did You Get . . .? Where did you get a little round turn like that from? Where did you get a little round turn like that from? Mum's and Dad's are not like that, Mum's and Dad's are nice and flat So where did you get a little round turn, A little round turn like yours? and Where did you get two little teeth like that from? Where did you get two little teeth like that from? Not one bit like Mummy or Dad, Mum's and Dad's teeth all went bad, So where did you get two little teeth, Two little teeth like yours? and Where did you get a sticky little face like that from? Where did you get a sticky little face like that from? The stickiest face I've ever seen. Mummy's and Dad's are nice and clean, So where did you get a sticky little face, A sticky little face like yours? Whose Toes Are Those? Whose toes are those? Mine I suppose And fingers, what luck! I'll give them a suck. Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake Baker's man, Bake us a cake As fast as you can, But wash your hands Before you invite us 'Cause we don't want Gastro-enteritis! Poor Dad My wife was a lovely girl, A friend right from the start. We had good times together, Never cared to be apart. We went on lovely holidays But now all that's gone west. For my wife's had a baby, And I am second best. She won't come to the pictures And she won't come for a drink. She's making eggy bread Or washing bottles in the sink. She will not take my hand Although I am the man she loves. No, she's nappy sterilising In a set of rubber gloves. Either she is feeding him Or tickling his turn, Patting him or stroking him Or trying to suck his thumb. Then there's great excitement When she holds him on the pot. I think if he performed She'd have convulsions on the spot. And when at last she's laid him Tenderly into his cot, There he lies surrounded By the trappings he has got, And leaning over all I see the back view of his mother Cranking up a mobile Playing something or the other. And hanging in his cot He has a finger practice thing, And if he pokes or prods it It will whirr and clonk and ding. At half past four each morning, Not a morning has he missed, He whirrs and clonks and dings And drives his father round the twist. And all across the carpet Where I used to stretch me legs Are his rattles, and his beakers And his half-chewed Bickiepegs, His pram, his little buggy With the sunshade for his head. No don't tidy up, I'll go and sit out in the shed. Last night for example I had just come in from work. I'm glad no one was watching Or I should have felt a berk. I burst in through the door And I was throttled as I came, By the cables of a baby bouncer Hanging from the frame. He is a lovely baby, Anyone can plainly see. But while I'm fond of him, He hasn't got much time for me. Frankly as a Dad I feel a failure and a dunce. When I appear he cries And sicks and widdles all at once. She's locked the bathroom cabinet, She's making such a fuss. I have to pick the padlock Just to get me shaving brush. His little pots and bottles Are clustered round the tap For soothing gums and iffy turns And nasty cradle cap. I mustn't wake the baby up Or give the door a slam. I mustn't mow the lawn Because he's out there in his pram. I mustn't play my records, She's got noises on the brain. It's "Must you blow your nose?" And "Did you have to pull the chain?" Ah well, I've had me sandwich So I'll clear off down the pub. I doubt my wife will notice For they've both got in the tub. There's laughing and there's splashing, A good time's being had. "Well, bye bye, dear!" Oh. She can't hear. "Try not to miss me . . . Dad." Nanny The day our nanny got the sack The baby slipped up round the back, Bumped his head and grazed his knee And ran to her and not to me. Baby's Dinner Time It's time to have my dinner, Half past twelve has come. My shouting and complaining Have proved too much for Mum. It might be Bovril soldiers Or egg and bacon tart, It might be mashed banana But it's time to make a start. Mum puts me in my high chair And stands it by the wall. She gets the bib and harness And the suction plate and all. I push my feet against the table, Not too low or high, So the chair goes over backwards And I bump my head and cry. And then I get impatient And rattle on my plate And struggle in my high chair So that Mum gets in a state. I take my teacher beaker And whirl it by the spout. With any luck the lid comes off And all the drink flies out. Mum's keen on table manners If a visitor has come. It's always "Sit up nicely now" and "Eat it up for Mum." So what I like to do Is take a mouthful of the food And, smiling at the guest, I let it tumble out half-chewed. Some I suck and swallow, Some I suck and leave. Some sticks in me hair And quite a lot sticks on me sleeve. Mum gets irritated When I give the bowl a stir, So before she takes my spoon away I stick a bit on her. Mummy's had no dinner, She isn't looking bright. She's looking very tired, Still I grizzled half the night. Her eyelids keep on closing, Her chin is on her chest. Of all the things we do each day, My Mum likes dinner time best. Wayne My baby's eyes are bluer than yours, He's got much more hair and he's stronger. He's ever so bright, He sleeps through the night, And of our two I'd say mine is longer. I swear it's the truth, Mine's cutting a tooth And he's obviously going to be tall. No, it's hard to explain, Now I've looked at your Wayne, Why you bothered to have one at all. Coping Dear Mum, A little letter while the baby is asleep. I've tucked him in his cot and put the nappies in to steep. I took the bottle teat because his feeding seemed so slow, And stabbed it with a safety pin to quicken up the flow. I haven't learned the knack of how to bath the baby yet. He seems to get so angry that he baths himself with sweat. And when I get him in it after dithering about He widdles in the water and I have to take him out. But if the days are difficult, the nights are harder still. I'm not one to complain but well perhaps today I will. I'm sleeping in my cosy bed and everything's all right When a little hungry whimpering comes stealing through the night. And off into the gloom we go, the baby and the mother, Slowly down the landing holding on to one another. I know he's only little and I know he must be fed, But I'd give a thousand pounds if I could jump back into bed. You see, I haven't had a decent sleep for weeks and weeks. But still I gamely dab the bottled roses on me cheeks. My lovely shiny hair that used to bounce about before Is clogging up the hairbrush in the dressing table drawer. I'm so tired, Mother, and my muscles seem so slack They say that doing exercise will bring my figure back. My lovely tummy, flatter than the surface of a lake, Feels just lie a plate of that blancmange you used to make. So in the afternoon I have a nap, a little rest. An easy thing to do, a normal person would suggest. I curl up on the sofa with the papers on the floor, And half a dozen people start to hammer on the door. Friends I haven't seen for years are there in overcoats. In they troop with coughs and colds and ulcerated throats. I have to give them cups of tea, I have to give them cake, And underneath my breath I think "Push off for goodness sake!" I'll cook the dinner now and peg the nappies on the line. Mum, I'll have to go but, yes, the babe and me are fine. I'd walk him in his pram but now it's gone in for repairs. I'm afraid it got a rupture when I heaved it down the stairs. Love to everyone at home and will you tell them all Thank you for the knitted coats. Every one's too small. I'll have to love and leave you, there is wailing from on high. Did I make the right decision, Mother? Yes! Goodbye. Foghorn Lullaby Go to sleep my little foghorn, Give your poor old throat a rest. Of all the little foghorns, You're the one I love the best. You're the dearest little foghorn In the country or the town But how I sometimes wish That I could turn the volume down!