Friday, 20 March 2015

Trinket

So there she sat beneath the stairs
her hair in bunches her teeth in pears
As calm as haddock upon a plate,
a curious curl strung from her pate
Her feet she kept in a steaming bowl 
her elbows jigged to some rigmarole
Played by an Irish Ceilidh band
with wooden spoons tied to their hands
Their knees a knocking a calamitous toon
banged out with menace by a silver spoon
The sound of trumpets brazen squealing
was less than good, not at all appealing
Aha, alack The Sally Army are back
with Jesus in a tutu, God on the rack
Those tambourines all a clattering
as Mrs Greasespoon is gaily nattering
To Mister Bumfroth all a daze 
back from vacation at Walton-on-the Naze
And then the camera sweeps and swoops
tumbling images into loops
That first appear in shudders and shapes,
irritating like Bumfroth's grapes
That itch and grumble then erase his smiles
as he scratches at his trembling piles
But Beryl Upright, a goodly lass,
 tired of watching the man poke at his ass
Removes herself, eyes a glaze,
to catch the bus back to her home in Hayes.
And so the day passes by,
salmon pink turns the sky,
as we all wave a fond goodbye.

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Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.

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