Friday Poetry Corner

[thunderlizard]

I am a big Rambling Syd Rumpo fan and that is my favourite one!
Green Grow My Nadgers-O gets second place.

[RichardCranium]

Easy ways to travel the country...

The Dolly on the Dustcart
Written by Pam Ayres

I'm the dolly on the dustcart,
I can see you're not impressed,
I'm fixed above the driver's cab,
With wire across me chest.
The dustman see, he noticed me,
Going in the grinder,
And he fixed me on the lorry.
I dunno if that was kinder.

This used to be a lovely dress,
In pink and pretty shades,
But it's torn now, being on the cart,
And black as the ace of spades.
There's dirt all round me face,
And all across me rosy cheeks,
Well, I've had me head thrown back,
But we ain't had no rain for weeks.

I used to be a 'Mama' doll,
Tipped forward, I'd say, 'Mum'.
But the rain got in me squeaker,
And now I've been struck dumb,
I had two lovely blue eyes,
But out in the wind and weather,
One's sunk back in me head like,
And one's gone altogether.

I'm not a soft, flesh coloured dolly,
Modern children like so much,
I'm one of those hard old dollies,
What are very cold to touch,
Modern dolly's underwear,
Leaves me a bit nonplussed,
I haven't got a bra,
But then I haven't got a bust!

But I was happy in that doll's house,
I was happy as a Queen,
I never knew that Tiny Tears,
Was coming on the scene,
I heard of dolls with hair that grew,
And I was quite enthralled,
Until I realised my head
Was hard and pink... and bald.

So I travel with the rubbish,
Out of fashion, out of style,
Out of me environment,
For mile after mile,
No longer prized... dustbinised!
Unfeminine, untidy,
I'm the dolly on the dustcart,
And there's no collection Friday.

[RichardCranium]

THE BALLAD OF THE WOGGLER'S MOOLY

Joe, he was a young cordwangler,
Munging greebles he did go,
And he loved a bogler's daughter
By the name of Chiswick Flo.

Vain she was and like a grusset
Though her gander parts were fine,
But she sneered at his cordwangle
As it hung upon the line.

So he stole a woggler's mooly
For to make a wedding ring,
But the Bow Street Runners caught him
And the judge said "He will swing."

Oh, they hung him by the postern,
Nailed his mooly to the fence
For to warn all young cordwanglers
That it was a grave offence.

There's a moral to this story,
Though your cordwangle be poor,
Keep your hands off other's moolies,
For it is against the law.


Rambling Syd Rumpo