Bodkin’s Pony (Part I)

‘I-ee-i-ee-i-ee-iron!’ 

T’is I, Bodkin’s pony,

Ready for the knacker’s yard.

Twenty year o’ pulling cart,

Up the ‘ills; t’is blummin’ ‘ard.

‘I-ee-i-ee-i-ee-iron!’ 

The ‘ills o’ Nether Podmore,

I ‘ates the blummin’ place.

‘im behind, ‘e flicks the reins,

T’ain’t a blummin’ race!

‘I-ee-i-ee-i-ee-iron!’ 

‘n up the ‘igh Street we goes,

Me old joints ‘bout giving way.

‘n all I got t’ look forward t’,

Is a bag o’ blummin’ ‘ay!

‘I-ee-i-ee-i-ee-iron!’ 

Yeah! Stick ‘is loudspeaker,

Where the sun don’t go!

Me blummin’ ‘ead’s a-buzzing… 

‘orses ‘ave ears, don’t ‘e know?

‘I-ee-i-ee-i-ee-iron!’ 

I ‘ave t’ lug a ton o’ scrap,

Up this ‘ill, for Goodness Sakes!

‘n what is worse, the down ‘ill bit,

‘cos ‘orseshoes, they ain’t brakes!

‘I-ee-i-ee-i-ee-iron!’ 

Ah, shut up! Blummin’ slave driver!

Goodbye

Flying Shoes

The little village of Nether Podmore,

Was drowsy in the summer’s heat.

Into a café, Mavis waddled,

To take the weight off her aching feet.

She’s bought new summer lightweight shoes,

She’s trying them out today.

But they rub at the back, like hessian sack,

Maybe she should throw them away?

“Oo that’s a smashing cup of tea, me dear,”

Purring with a sigh of ecstasy.

She quickly kicked her new shoes off,

One landed on Old Fred Tuckett’s knee.

The other did a mid air loop-the-loop,

As the café folk began to fret.

It dropped then flopped, insole first,

Onto Charlie Dongle’s ice-cream cornet.

Mavis, bright red, she wished she was dead,

Not intending such wicked a trick.

But the place was in uproar, especially when they saw,

A shoe on an ice cream, and Charlie, in mid lick.

But Charlie’s a gent and politely smiled,

Then carefully wiped clean her shoe.

Considered to say, that on this hot summer’s day,

‘There, it’s now nicely chilled for you.’

Then Old Fred Tuckett with a shoe gripped tight,

And never an opportunity to miss.

Like a pantomime prince, cheekily grins,

“Whosoever this slipper fits, shall give me a kiss!”

Old Fred got his kiss; he’s floating with bliss,

Of ice cream, Charlie’s now not so keen.

And those summery shoes, that gave her the blues,

On Mavis, were never more seen.

Frankenstein’s Little Monster

Very rare, the teddy bear,

The doctor brought to life.

A bolt from God, the lightning rod,

Completes the surgeon’s knife.

Resin eyes, where passion lies,

Burn crimson red like blood.

And doom to note, a duffle coat,

With Paddington-style hood.

‘It is done, my little son!’

The doctor’s gleeful shout.

And as the ted, sat up in bed,

The workshop lights went out.

Death ray eyes, glowed bloody fireflies,

Evil eyes: rapier lasers; remote.

Static fur, began to stir,

Round tiny bolts through tiny throat.

The doctor’s gasp, the bench to grasp,

A monster; he’d given breath.

The teddy bear, flew in the air,

And cuddled him to death.

And so that night, it took to flight,

A demon with cute ears.

Who for a lovin’, knocks out your stuffin’,

And it all ends up in tears.

The Torch Relay

A thousand cities, towns and villages,

And yet so sad to say.

Nether Podmore never saw,

The Olympic torch relay.

It passed elsewhere and miles away,

They watched it on the telly.

Cornish clips and Viking ships,

Didier and Dame Kelly.

A meeting at the Allotments,

A brain-storming session.

Nether Podites, quite within their rights,

To hold their own procession.

Couldn’t afford an ‘official’ torch,

Too expensive on e-bay.

‘What’s wrong with a decorator’s one,

On low flame?’ Harry did say.

Mavis said, ‘And light it by the sun,

Its rays are sacred, you know.’

But what is sun? They looked upon,

The rain spots on the window.

So they used a sacred match,

One that wasn’t damp.

And quell that doubt of torch going out,

A back up, Charlie’s paraffin lamp.

What of the torch bearers?

They put it to a vote.

Reverend Alf was fond, start at the duck pond,

He’s ready in a rowing boat.

Hands over to Charlie Dongle,

One arm round his prize marrow.

Then Betty, sitting pretty, down the jitty,

In old Fred Tuckett’s wheelbarrow.

Then off down the High Street,

Arthur’s mobility scooter wobbles.

Shakes and bounces, Arthur trounces,

As it passes over cobbles.

Everyone is cheering loud,

Flags waving in the drizzly rain.

Arthur’s lost his brakes, accelerates,

Down a country lane.

But he’s a racing master,

At mobility scooter control.

No big deal, wheel squeal,

Swerves to dodge a pothole.

And back into the village,

Edna Tail takes the flame.

She’s no Rolls Royce, slow as a tortoise,

On her zimmer frame.

Then later on that evening,

The Dog and Duck pub.

Where finally it, lit the spit,

To roast the roast hog grub.

That was where it ended,

Saluted with a cheer.

Without a doubt, the flame went out,

But will it be back next year?

And you won’t find it listed,

On e-bay as ‘unofficial’ torch.

‘Cos Harry needs it, for a bit,

To finish off his porch.

A Chance Find

The garden in summer is such a delight,

With perfumed flowers of deep colour, pastel and bright.

Sweet bird song in the air above, rich soil beneath,

It was then that I came across some mouldy false teeth.

They were on the bird table but fell to the ground,

They’ve frightened the squirrels for miles around.

Too scared to come down, they haven’t got the guts,

As they sit quivering in the treetops, clutching their nuts.

The swallows have flown south, foxy hides in a dustbin,

The old wood pigeon isn’t cooing and looking awfully thin.

And hiding away is bold cock robin, that cheeky little fellow,

Little Mr. Red Breast has now turned a shade of chicken yellow.

Those mouldy set of gnashers, at me they seem to smile,

I picked them up with two short sticks, Chinese chopstick style.

And just as I go to bin them, to end this little matter,

“Oi! Don’t do that! No, not the rubbish bin!” I hear them chatter.

Imagine my shock and surprise and the rude words I said,

Then I realised behind me was Harry, his face a subtle shade of red.

“Thank goodness you found them, I’ve looked north and south!”

He gave the teeth a quick wipe, then popped them in his mouth!

Chicken Pie Thief

Two pies sitting in the sunset,

There’s one chicken and one beef.

They’re cooling on the window sill,

They’ll surely come to grief.

The smell intoxicates me,

It wafts across the yard.

Better shut the window, Betty,

Or you’ll have to stand on guard.

Betty moves to shut the window,

A mass scramble but too late!

She’s left with just one beef pie,

And an empty, spinning plate.

“That blummin’ cat!” Betty screams,

And rushes into the yard.

The cat is nowhere to be seen,

Though Betty looks both long and hard.

A noise behind a privet bush,

A giggle, sounds suspicious.

Tommy Hare loves chicken pies,

And Betty’s are delicious!

Oompah, Zumba, Stick It Up Your Jumper!

In the quiet village of Nether Podmore,

The new craze to arrive.

For old folks' never ceasing quest,

On new ways to survive.

They've discovered Zumba,

A form of fitness workout.

A chance for all the pensioners,

To shake their booty all about.

There's Arthur Pringle,

Dicing with his dodgy hip.

Puts both feet through the same hole,

As on his shorts, he tries to slip.

And eighty-odd-years, Edna Tail,

Not sure what costume will do.

Wears her leopard-print leotard,

Will frilly pink tutu.

'Cos Edna was once a dancer,

And she's seen that movie, Fame.

She still can do some tricky moves,

With the aid of a zimmer frame.

There's Harry Grout, belly sticking out,

Mavis laughs, that's most unkind.

But Harry's wise not to reply,

About Mavis and her large behind.

And Old Fred Tuckett (minus bucket),

Rev. Alf, Elsie, and many others.

Little Pocket Pete and Lanky Len,

(The opposite-height brothers).

They warm up slowly, to and fro,

Arms weaving like a snake.

But after just a couple of these,

Poor Edna asks, 'Can I have a break?'

With Edna out, the music starts,

Arthur's hip is feeling numb.

But bravely soldiers on behind,

Mavis and her wobbly bum.

Harry Grout and Reverend Alf,

Belly-boys, roly-polies.

Backward hips, Alf's backside rips,

Revealing his Holy of Holies.

Charlie Dongle's sweating hard,

His wrinkled muscles ripple.

In old string vest, clutches chest,

'Cos he's got 'jogger's nipple'.

They get the step-up boxes out,

But little Pocket Pete they fear.

Will have to nip home to fetch,

His mountaineering gear.

They all have fun and everyone,

Collapses in their chairs.

And come the days that follow on,

They'll all be forced to live downstairs.

Queen of the Mud

(Warning! It’s a bit saucy!)

Upper Podmore looks down upon,

Little Tossup, and if they had a bomb.

Would roll it down to Nether Podmore, and on,

Down into Trumpingwell, at the bottom.

Trumpingwell is a sizeable town,

Sat snuggly in its own little valley.

With one recognisable star of renown,

Women’s champion mud wrestler… ‘Tin-Pan’ Sally.

And so as it ought, to be put in a report,

That here, mud wrestling is much more than a passion.

For women contestants wear old welly boots,

And the men wear high heels of high fashion.

They laugh and cavort, at this ludicrous sport,

As Sally hauls ‘Big-Bucket’ Pam over her shoulder.

She spins her around, slam-dunks to the ground,

And sits on her as if she’s a boulder!

Pam’s quite ‘put-out’, and begins to shout,

For submission, “Oh please, show me pity!”

From the inelegant dump to that elephant lump,

Now squashing her bucket-sized left titty.

Sally jumps up and so claims the cup,

Once again, champion for the umpteenth year.

An amazon of great size with amazing tree-trunk thighs,

‘She’s the Queen of the Mud!’ they all cheer.

But the Queen of the Mud, isn’t feeling too good,

A sad tear trickles down into the mire.

‘Cos she’s hanging up her wellies, and leaving the ring,

For a pig farm where she can retire.

Well, she’s settling down with pig farmer, Stan Brown,

Whom she fondly adores, no doubt.

Wrestling piglets all day, then a roll in the hay,

Two submissions, three counts and a knockout!

I'm Blue Cat Blue

She’s As Hard As Nails

Betty’s in the Beauty Salon,

Shows the beautician her nails.

A mile away on the edge of town,

Are heard the screams and wails!

The beautician takes a long, deep breath,

“How would madam like them?” she asks, quite daunted.

“I want them black and blue,” says Betty,

“And I want them sharp and pointed!”

“Oh dear, I fear your nails will then,

Become like claws,” the beautician said.

“And black and blue are so not you,

Wouldn’t madam prefer radiant red?”

“Hmm, radiant red?” Betty pondered this new idea,

Then said with a hesitant stammer,

“B-but wouldn’t that mean painting them, instead,

Of hitting them with a hammer?”

Tuatappitongans

The South Sea Island, Tuatappitonga,

Financially is quite poor.

Olympics bound but London found,

Too dear, so based in Nether Podmore.

High jumper, Tuatappitingo,

They call the 'human flea'.

Not 'cos he can jump so high,

More that he's only four foot three.

He was a limbo champion,

But then he lost the knack.

Rumba'd slow and slumped too low,

Now he's got a jippy back.

Long jumper, Tuatappitugga,

She's looking rather fit.

She's training at the Primary school,

And using their sandpit.

She's concentrating really hard,

Although she doesn't look it.

Focused stare then through the air,

And miss that little plastic bucket.

Canoeist, Tuatappitikki,

Capsized and blushes red.

Sitting in the shallow duck pond,

A lily pad is on his head.

Archer, Tuatappibatti,

Her arrows by her side.

Now everyone is hiding,

'Cos she looked at them cross-eyed.

And diver, Tuatappitutti,

Wobbles his belly and hips.

In lycra tights and scared of heights,

Dives into a bag of chips.

The South Sea Island team,

At the Dog and Duck are staying.

They're having such a happy time,

At drinking beer and domino playing.

But time had come for London Games,

For athletes from the South Sea.

They stayed behind in the Dog and Duck,

And watched the whole thing on TV.

Winter Drawers Off!

Elsie Ding’s winter drawers,

Are hanging on her washing line.

Industrial-strength with ‘supa-elastic’, 

Though the stitching is quite fine.

But that’s not strange, why all the fuss?

I hear you casually say.

Well, it was Monday when her drawers went up,

And now it’s Saturday.

No, she’s not gone away on holiday,

To Scotland in her socks.

Without her drawers this time of year,

It’s far too cold around the Trossachs.

And when you mention her ailments,

She’ll say you’re overstating.

Yesterday, the wind got up,

It was quite invigorating.

Has Elsie Ding got no shame? You ask,

What has happened, do you know…

Why she has abandoned all reason,

And gone completely commando?

Well, she meant to bring her drawers,

Back into the house.

But a bulge in one leg revealed the nest,

Of a cute and sleepy dormouse.

So Elsie Ding tiptoed away,

And now she uses next door’s…

Washing line to dry her clothes,

Except for her winter drawers.

They’re still hanging there, industrial-strength,

Through winter rain and storm.

With a cute little dormouse nestled inside,

Curled up, all snuggly and warm.

So Many Dangers

There are so many dangers around these days,

Each carefully placed by the Grim Reaper.

(Such as when…)

Little Pocket Pete disappeared in the street,

Up the suction hose of a passing road sweeper.

Old Fred Tuckett side-stepped his old bucket,

Then tripped over his old wheelbarrow.

Squashed greenfly that just happened to pass by,

Charlie Dongle’s darling prize marrow.

Betty in bed, with a bump on her head,

She’d bungee-jumped off a stepladder.

And poor Cyril’s sneeze, right down to his knees,

Dodgy ticker, wobbly hips and weak bladder!

And to top all of that, Harry’s old trilby hat,

Found floating in the local duck pond.

The folk gathered round, fearing Harry had drowned,

And didn’t know how to respond.

Reverend Alf felt sad to say, ‘Let us pray,

For poor Harry, God rest his soul.’ And then,

To round it all off, from the back, a cough,

From Harry, who muttered, ‘Amen.’

Giant Baby

A Strange Knit

Auntie Elsie, a knitting spree,

Bought a knitting pattern.

By mistake, the cover fake,

A teddy with a hat on.

Clickety-clicks, her knitting sticks,

Wool: red, white and blue.

Had an idea, something queer,

As she was half-way through.

Such little ted, with tiny head,

To fit this funny hat.

Just an inch, and at a pinch,

Would fit the whiskers on a cat.

Six inch through, red, white and blue,

Tubular French tricolour.

Elsie pondered, strangely wondered,

What the heck she’d use it for?

So asked Rosy; perhaps a cosy,

Warm sausage rolls, was told.

And thoughts did linger, upon a finger,

Protector from the cold.

This wasn’t right; a frosty night,

In bed, cold with Uncle Willy.

As with luck, a thought was struck,

Though sounded rather silly.

A man-size one, to slip on,

Cold Willy for a bit.

And Uncle Willy, no longer chilly,

‘Willy Warmer’, she called it!

The Devil in the Diesel

'Fuel it? We're full of it!'

Tosco Petrol's happy catchphrase.

A vacant plot in Nether Podmore,

Construction site in a couple of days.

A plot that before the bulldozers,

Was known as Guthlath's Wood.

Where anyone who strayed in there,

Never came to any good.

Ancient thicket, tangled brush,

Hid a secret, ne'er to tell.

Of moonlit night, eerie fright,

A wandering lost soul's scream and yell?

But as in all good horror tales,

Morning light brings brighter thought.

A notice board proclaims the plot,

For snack shop and fuel forecourt.

Some opposed and others applauded,

The demise of Guthlath's Wood.

Some said, 'We've lost a magical place,'

Others just said, 'Good!'

But magic of ancient source,

Once hazel, ash and mistletoe.

Ripped apart by iron claw,

In vacant plot, had nowhere to go.

It waited, lurking in the soil,

Then crept into the setting mortar.

Into an unfilled diesel chamber,

Totally ignoring free air and water.

It all started off so nicely,

Decent prices on entrance sign.

Blazed numbers, big and bright,

Except the much smaller, 'point nine'.

Snack shop poster board outside,

To entice and make you feel.

That cola, crisps and chocolate,

Constitute your three-a-day, 'meal' deal.

However, the ancient magic swirled,

Coalescing as one big clump.

And bit by bit dissipated,

Through the diesel pump.

It was Steve's old Transit van,

That got the first through.

It left the scene, black smoke screen,

But that was nothing new.

Steve's dad is Chief Running Water,

And looking over garden fence.

'Here come Steve, van make rude smoke signal,

Enough to cause a big offence!'

Next was Stan Bodkin, coach loaded,

Off to Skegness for the day.

Blink of eyes then stunned surprise,

Slowly sinks in Morcambe Bay.

Council Road Sweeper to Silverstone,

Crashed the F1 racing track and soared.

Round the circuit, such a rate,

It broke the track lap record.

And Jan's little red Fiesta,

Took the last of the magic to go.

Relieved was she that fortunately,

Got permission to land at Heathrow!

The magic's gone, so too Tosco's,

Now you can safely ramble.

Across rubbly mud of Guthlath's Wood,

'Eek! What's that moving in the bramble?'