Just Where You Left It... and Other Poems. David Roche
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу Just Where You Left It... and Other Poems - David Roche страница 3
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
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
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!