Just Where You Left It... and Other Poems. David Roche

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Just Where You Left It... and Other Poems - David Roche

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      And then they get all naughty.

      What makes me sick and shocked and shamed

      Is they’re all over forty.

      He was God’s gift to music,

      A rockstar, given the chance.

      But it’s a total killer

      If you ever see him dance.

      He also thinks he’s sexy

      And flirts with the au pair.

      I’ll never take a girlfriend home

      If my dad just might be there.

      His hair’s receding rapidly;

      It’s now just a massive parting.

      He combs it over from one side,

      A bit like Bobby Charlton.

      He also was a sportsman once

      And now he’s on my side.

      The touchline echoes with his yells

      And I just want to hide.

      He also thinks he’s funny

      And tells jokes to all my chums.

      He makes Sid James look classy

      With his jests of tits and bums.

      But once he was a teenager –

      Was a lad, back in his day.

      He must have cringed at my grandad

      In exactly the same way.

      We Have Ways of Making You Eat

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      School rules are often stupid,

      To do with bells and pegs.

      Shirts must be tucked in trousers

      And socks cover half of your legs.

      But lunchtime brings The Great Escape.

      The Dining Hall is Colditz.

      The menu is from World War II

      And you cannot eat the old bits.

      There’s food you won’t find anywhere else:

      Spam fritters and school liver.

      And turkey twizzlers that made their name

      Because of Jamie O’liver.

      The dinner ladies patrol the scene

      With Gestapo-looking features.

      They’ll spot any food that’s left on your plate

      And report you to the teachers.

      So the people who are legends,

      And the ones who set you free,

      Are the Food Escape Committee;

      “F.E.C.” to you and me.

      We’re not talking here about everyday feats

      Like faking certain allergies.

      Or scraping eggs behind radiators

      And aversion to the calories.

      We’re talking total heroes here,

      The ones with real worth.

      The sort who’d dig the tunnels

      And then disperse the earth.

      Boys like “Goose” McGinty

      With a Brussels sprout in his locket.

      Or ones like “Mad Max” Redmond,

      Who hid bolognese in his pocket.

      Or Josh “White Laces” Russell

      With spaghetti in his shoes,

      And his pencil case containing

      Hidden beetroot for the loos.

      But the ultimate name we all revere,

      With his smuggling of fish pie,

      Was Ben “The Mole” Carruthers,

      Who hid the lot inside his tie.

      Never was so much smuggled out

      By the few who ate so little.

      They fought for menus “a la carte”

      And for doughnuts with jam in the middle.

      “We want puds with custard and cream.

      We want lychees rather than leeches.

      We know our expedience will improve ingredients

      And we’ll fight them on the peaches.”

      The Poetry Recitation

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      My palms are sweaty, my mouth is dry.

      There is the stage. I ask myself why

      Do I have to do this? It’s not fair

      To force scared boys to read up there.

      Standing alone, when it’s your turn.

      No text to read, they make you learn.

      The first boy up is a nervous wreck,

      Just stood there on the burning deck.

      Parents to right of him. Parents to left of him.

      It’s all too much and the room starts to spin.

      The next boy comes on. Will he be all right?

      “Tyger!

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