The "Poetry" Series

           Mail Box

My wife had had a life-long goal

To have a mailbox on a pole.

Just like they have in t’ USA

Where ’ruddy door is miles away.

“I think it’s daft,” says I to her,

“When our front door is only there,

The letters drop down on the mat.

I just can’t see what’s wrong wi’ that.”

“Well, folks can see them every day,

And ’specially if we’ve gone away.

I think a burglar with a torch

Would see the letters in the porch.”

“Well, I think it would be a sin,

To make a box to catch ’em in,

And if it’s out there on the wall,

We’ll get wet going for ’em all.”

“Well, I don’t care what you’ve to say,
I’m going to buy one now, today.

You can come with me, if you like,

Unless you’re going on your bike.”

“No. I’ll come with you on the bus,

I’m not a man to make a fuss,

I’ll help you choose the one you want,

We’ll get it now for on the front.”

I took her to the hardware shops,

And looked at every letter box.

She chose a black one, wide and tall,

And said we’d put by the wall.

We took it home. I got a pole

And then I made a two-foot hole.

And with my hammer bashed it in,

Preparing for the letter bin.

And after half a dozen knocks,

I went to get the letter box.

But when I read the label header,

T’ thing was just a paper-shredder!

She said, “I think it will be grand

To have a mail-box on a stand.”

And I agreed it couldn’t fail,

… unless you want to READ the mail.

I intend to make a regular Sunday Post.

This will include:

              an original poem.

              some original cartoons:

                                     a) from my "Typos" series

                                     b) from my "Everyday Knights" series.

Any other original cartoon, drawing or photograph that amuses me.

Local Christmas Weather

Local Christmas Weather

This is not a canal or a river - it's the road through the village.

In the Name of the Rose

1.   The first of many poems to be put on here. 

        In the Name of the Rose
        (To be read in a Lancashire accent)

One day when Harry went out with his wife,

They met an old couple they’d known all their life.

“How’s things with you?” asked David, his friend.

“Good,” said old Harry. “My legs’ll still bend.

I’ve got some new glasses and hearing aids too.

So, I have to admit that I’m fine. How are you?”

When David had told him about their TV

And how they had snacks on a tray on their knee

And how he could still take the dog for a walk,

Harry said nowt and let David’s wife talk.

She said that they’d been to the shops yesterday,

And had fish and chips in the station café.

Harry said they’d bin th’ pictures last night,

And saw a new film that was really all right.

 “So what was it called?” asked Dave, tickled pink.

“Well, dammit!” said Harry and started to think.

But the thought wouldn’t come, though he scratched his head twice.

He could only confirm that he thought it was nice.

Then he thumped on his forehead and had an idea,

“Dave. Worr is the name o’ that plant over theer?

That one with the scent and the petals that’s grand.

It has thorns on its stalk, that’ll prickle your hand.”

“A rose?” said old Dave, with no hesitation.

“That’s it!” exclaimed Harry, in great excitation.

Then he turned to his wife, like it was the last straw,

“Rose.   What was the name of that film what we saw?”