To the right and before him Pont Street
Did tower in her new built red,
He sighed as he removed his needles
And shifted to number fives instead.
'I want some more hock in my seltzer,
And Robbie, please give me your hand -
I'm knitting some mittens that suit you,
All grey, short and hairy, and bland.'
'So you've brought the new 'Knitting for Felons'
And Betty has got it in now:
It's got a lovely pattern for rompers
If she hasn't removed it - the cow!'
'More hock, Robbie - where is the seltzer?
Dear boy, pull at the bell!
Oh, now I've dropped one of my stitches
An someones emitted a smell!'
'One astrakhan coat is at Willis's -
Another one's at the Savoy:
My trousers are under the sofa
And YOU are a most wicked boy!
A thump, and a murmur of voices -
('Oh why must they make such a din?')
'Time to cast off, me hearties
And let all those rozzers in!'
'Mr. Woilde, we 'ave come for tew take yew
Where felons and criminals dwell:
Bring yor knittin' an leave with us quietly,
-Who made that Angora-type smell?'
He rose, putting down the 'Knitting for Felons'
He staggered - and with terrible eyes,
He collected the bottle of seltzer
And smuggled it into his flies.
He walked amongst the Trial Men,
With his bollard of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head
But he contra-flowed all day.
I never saw a man who looked
Just like the living dead.
But then his wistful eye espied,
'Dual Carriageway Ahead'.
I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within the bollards, in a ring.
I pictured Bosey in my brain,
And it was such a little thing.
At last, upon the Motorway,
Lord Afred set the bollards free.
And Oh!, it was a selfless act,
To close three lanes, just for me.
And as I languish in my cell,
My faithful bollard, gleaming red,
My minds eye rides the motorway,
Going east - to Maidenhead.
(* 'Fingall O'Flahertie' and 'Bet Johnjuman' are nom de plumes of G. Marshall, poet, coastguard, publican's friend, who lives in the sunny West Country, UK.)
So Norris started stripping
just to earn a crust.
The ladies found it gripping
and they fairly shook with lust
they threw things on the stage
such as underwear and shoes
poor Norris shook with rage
- for such things disturbed his Muse.
Then Norris met with Doris
at a Party of the Hen
she was soon to marry Boris
- a Russian, six foot ten.
She put coins in his G-string
it made his eyeballs spin
was it lust or just the feeling
of cold currency on skin?
Later, in the dressing room
he scribbled down a rhyme.
she was inspiration
she was radiant, sublime!
and as he was writing
Doris crept up from behind
her eyes soft and inviting
his body on her mind...
...and so Norris's Muse
was once again disturbed
till he saw two size eight shoes,
looked up and was perturbed
to see the mighty Boris
standing by the door
glaring down at Doris
calling her a whore!
Now Norris lies in traction
Boris is doing stir
for one moment's satisfaction -
the revenge on him and her
but now the poet's words are burning
he no longer plays a part
for, finally, he's learning
how to suffer for his art.
(Please note all persons mentioned in the above ballad are fictional. Any reproduction is prohibited without contraception.)
Doc Bleating put his helmet on
and thigh-high boots over his hooves
and a silver dress that brightly shone
as he looked out over the village rooves
where wood smoke curled from chimneys grey
and small cats tiptoed over the tiles
and he thought of his home, light years away
and his face was lost between tears and smiles.
He gathered his team of Rams In Heels
(all kitted out in tulle and silk)
and they ate the hastiest of meals -
powdered protein in ewe's milk.
Then they minced off, with work to do:
to set the simple Earth sheep free,
to dress with taste, in pastures new,
away from farming's slavery.
The simple Earth sheep little knew
what the long night held in store
- that they had become the Chosen Few
to wander wild for evermore,
until the barn doors opened wide
and Doc Bleating let out a yell,
"I have come to save your hide!
To save you from this living hell!"
The sheep looked up with a worried "baaa",
he'd caused their bovine minds to reel.
They'd never seen a ram in a bra,
wearing stilletto boots of steel,
with silver earrings in horns and ears,
with powdered face and pouting lip.
One whispered "Guys, I've known for years
they put cocaine in the sheep dip."
The others quietly edged away
out of the barn towards the stream
but Doc Bleating had more to say
He raised his voice, "I have a DREAM,
of a time when sheep no longer go
like LAMBS to SLAUGHTER, blindly led
but be BRAVE and STRONG, and so
no longer take the LIES you're fed"
But Bleating's words on Earth sheep ears
were like pearls cast out to swine
then, to confirm his darkest fears
he snagged his fishnets on a vine
and as the sheep went far and wide
He called his Rams in Heels to heel,
to fly back home in a sulky glide,
and what a dickhead he did feel.