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Tripod Tilly


Aching bones, loud groans,
joints that creak in tune with moans,
empty purse but much to say,
pensioned off before her day.

Now her tripod bag she wheels,
nowt to do but bear the squeals,
oil is summat she'll never seek,
her hearing aids gone up the creek.

Arthritis struck at thirty six,
another of lifes dirty tricks,
born with ears that weren't quite right
and both were stuck out in clear sight.

Mum had passed a good while back,
Dad had never shared their shack,
always on the road to ruin,
some new fiddle ever brewing.

Oft she thought when in a jam,
if only she could chat to her old man,
find out what it was that lead him to,
leave before she popped into view.

Was it that he had gypsy blood,
or felt he'd be misunderstood,
by her grandpop and her nan,
maybe he was just a running man.

Lonesome times since she left school,
didn't mix with the typing pool,
guys would never take her glance,
left her dry without romance.

Now so old before her time, 
an allowance not for living fine,
she makes a mile in many stops,
just to gaze into busy shops,
and if the bins look free from flies,
she may seek out some small surprise.

Another hour to trek back to,
the hovel where she hopes to chew,
upon some shrivelled veg and fruit,
on colder days it might be soup.

But for all her trials and deprivation,
she is still proud of this, her nation,
as her old mum used to stress,
British always will be best.

July 16th 2010


◄ Those Days...

Banjo On The Wall ►


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