I just write daft poems, nothing serious or heartfelt. I enjoy reading the work of other more accomplished poets, but don't always understand them and often miss the point.
The Smegroyd’s Moonlight Flit There was just too much week, at the end of the cash The Smegroyd’s were in dire straits Stan couldn’t ask any mates for a loan Cos, Stan didn’t have any mates Marline had diddled the didlum So next year’s Christmas was spent God only knows where the money had gone Cos she hadn’t been paying the rent The kids were as bad as the parents For always being skint, and in debt They’d cadge, and sponge, and borrow But never paid back……. as of yet Granny Smegroyd had made friends, with Curb-Crawler Ken To form the strangest alliance But Granny had no joy, in selling her body Except for, to medical science With the rent in arrears, and spiralling debts. And the Tallyman calling each night Stan called an extraordinary meeting To discuss the families sad plight He said “This village holds us no ties” “Nor did t’last one, thinking of it” “It’s time once again, to gather our clobber” “We’re doing a moonlight flit” “We’ll need one last meal, before leaving” And all eyes turned to their Mam So she knocked up some weapons grade porridge With a splodge of industrial jam Moonlight flitting was a well-practiced process They gathered there stuff in the hall And everyone stood there, in silence As they waited for night-time to fall At the front of the queue was Stan, and his piana An upright iron grand Of course it hadn’t been paid for When he bought it second-hand Bric a brac, and other small items Were all piled up high in the pram Stacked up high, like Jenga-on-wheels Set to be pushed by their Mam “You’ve not left no room for’t baby” Said Stan, in his clevering manner “Sorted” said Marline, as she picked up the sprog And plonked him right down…. on’t piana Just behind Marline, stood Granny With a trolley she’d nicked from Tesco Filled with clothes, and her Max Bygraves albums Granny was ready to go In a big metal cage, was Gran’s parrot A Cuban Macaw, from Havana She said “I haven’t got room, in mi trolley for this” So, Stan plonked it by t’sprog……… on’t piana The next in the queue were Malcolm, and Kevin Who’d cadged a barrow apiece With a loud squeaking sound when they pushed ‘em They’d forgotten to cadge axle grease They piled up the barrows with furniture Every stick, from the house So high that they’d struggle to push ‘em And they’d squeak, like a steroid-fed mouse The last in the line-up was Maggie Or as they called her “Little Madge” She emptied the wheelie-bin out in the garden And filled it with owt she could cadge She said “I hope we’re not leaving the dog” Referring to One-Eared-Peg So Stan took a hold of the dog-lead And tied it round t’piana’s front leg A cloak of darkness covered the village Though the moon was shining bright When all of the Smegroyds egressed the house To steal away………….into the night Stan whispered his final instructions Keeping it simple, and plain “We’ve got to stick closely together” “And keep quiet, till we clear the back lane” Stan and his piana took the lead Followed by Marline, with her pram full of gear Then Gran with her trolley. The boys with their barrows And Madge with her bin, at the rear They’d barely cleared the house When the baby started to wake “Hush” said Stan, in a whispered tone And that was Stan’s first big mistake On top of the piana, and next to the baby The parrot gave out a loud squawk And it repeated “HUSH”, just like Stan had just said Cos Granny had taught it to talk One-eared-Peg was still tied to the piana And she was a Husky…. By breed But being half deaf, she mistook “HUSH” for “MUSH” And that’s why she pulled on the lead Peg shot off down the road Which was cobbled, I hasten to say And the piana…. being on tiny casters Got rattled, and started to play With the baby crying, and the parrot squawking They were making one unholy row And the piana carried on…. playing itself Stan had to stop it, somehow Marline was falling behind So she quickened her pace, to catch up With the pram like a Giant Jenga She smashed several plates, and a cup Gran, with her Tesco Trolley Wasn’t fairing too well It just wouldn’t go where she pushed it So she swore, like merry hell Squeak squeak……….squeak squeak Then along came the boys With their un-greased barrow A right raucous noise The one next to come was Madge Pulling her wheelie-bin As it bounced and banged the cobbles Creating a right noisy din Moonlight flitting is meant to be stealthy In the night time, dark as pitch But the Smegroyd’s had made so much racket That curtains were starting to twitch Eventually, Peg ran out of steam And the piana stopped, just outside number eight And Marline smashed in, with her overfull pram Breaking more cups and a plate Granny’s trolley slewed all over the road So she pulled it back with a curse The parrot repeated what Granny had said Its language was getting much worse The lads with their squeaky barrows Hung on, as best they were able But, they scattered furniture all over the road A lampshade, three chairs and a table Madge caught up, in a stream of obscenities As she clattered and banged up the street She was really too young for such language And the parrot, too old to repeat Now they’d woken up the whole village Lights came on in every abode And people looked out of their windows To see chaos, all over the road Hesketh Boggins lived at number eight And was none too pleased, to be roused from his sleep He looked out of the window, to see Stan and his kin And there goods, piled up in a heap He shouted “What’s all the racket?” “Are you doing a moonlight flit, Stan?” “Why don’t you wait till tomorrow?” “And I’ll take you wherever, in’t van” “Why are you sneaking in darkness?” “And clattering about in the night” “Nobody here would miss yer” “So you could have just gone in daylight” Hesketh never divulged where he took them And it may sound a little bit snobbish But they were all just glad, to see the back of ‘em Good riddance to bad rubbish
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
A Bag Of Spuds And A Swede (part 1) (14/09/2019)
The Man Who Thinks Too Much (28/07/2019)
The Ghost Of Our Old Granny (04/07/2019)
Scared Of Spiders (04/06/2019)
The Lad With A Magpie Perched On His Head (02/06/2019)
A Body In The Don (02/05/2019)
The Annual Talent Show (Down At The Feathers) (25/03/2019)
Fred and Bullfrog Floppit (a re-post) (24/03/2019)
Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/kjwalker
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