re-write, hope it's better and not overworked:

The Red-Eyed Steer

 

he never got away did Fred

his sister did, got it away

with a foreign man in uniform.

 

mother and dad called her a whore

so he did too, lost her for good.

we found the photograph she sent

of her wedding day, her escape.

he’d saved it in a wooden box,

with a white five pound note

and a silver harmonica.

sang like a lark he said he did

at sunday service or aback

the lead ploughhorse following

his fathers threadbare jacket,

before they done bombed the privy.

(killed the best cow too.)

 

never married; his landgirl love

had leukaema and anyways

he could warm his hands of an

icy morn on the cows udder,

and conkers in the corners

kept the spiders off the bed, and

girls took time and he didn’t have

none because the hay needs cutting.

those milk churns they took some filling,

acres of work them cows wanted.

 

before he died we spun the cream

into the crock we found in the shed,

washed the woodworm out the paddle.

he patted buttermilk out the yellow,

wrapped around the waxed paper.

all it needed was a ribbon.

he smiled and cried like Christmas,

like when we put the lav indoors

(never shit indoors before he hadn’t)

and a microwave in the outhouse

and chucked the hard upright chair

for a soft un, with arms too, and

a tv remote, - in colour.

 

stopped the cars on the London road

to take him on a ride in a coffin.

he would have liked that.

even if it weren’t the escape he planned.
 

(i shot the red-eyed steer as broke his legs)

 

First Version

The Red Eyed Steer

he never got away did Fred

his sister did though, got it away

with a man in uniform.

mother called her a whore.

he saw her again at his funeral.

we found a newspaper cutting

of her happy day,

he had saved it in a wooden casket,

with a white five pound note

and a silver accordion.

sang like a lark he said he did

at sunday service or aback

the lead ploughhorse

following dads threadbare jacket,

before they bombed the privy.

(killed the best cow too.)

never married, the landgirl

had leukaemia and anyways

he could warm his hands

of an icy morn on the cows udder,

and conkers in the corners

kept the spiders off the bed,

and girls took time and he didn’t have none

‘cos the hay needed cutting.

those churns took some filling,

acres of grass they did.

before he died we spun out the cream

into the crock we found in the shed

washed the woodworm out the paddle-box

he patted the yellow to drip the buttermilk,

wrapped the waxed paper,

all it needed was a ribbon.

he smiled and cried like Christmas.

just like when we fitted the lav indoors

(never shit indoors before he hadn’t)

and a microwave in the outhouse

and chucked the hard upright chair

for a soft un, with arms too,

and a tv remote in colour.

stopped the traffic on the London road

to take him on a cart ride in a coffin.

he would have liked that.

(i shot the red-eyed steer as broke his legs)