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I took my Dad out
to the pub,
Just to get a drop of grub -
One thing I should let you know,
He'd lately had a heavy blow,
And so to drag him from his gloom,
I called round to his lonely room,
Said "Come on, get your coat on Pa"
And wheeled him out into the car.
So from that
place we went on down,
Through winding lanes to Drayton town,
To see what pubs this place would yield,
But then we thought we'd go afield,
Take ourselves off, have a jaunt,
Go take a look at Dad's old haunts...
And after some small time abroad,
We came at length to Malthouse Broad,
Ranworth Village, pub, shop, staithe,
To see what Maltster's alehouse gave
By way of victuals, drink and cheer,
But 'fore we sampled any beer,
Down by the water, took a stroll,
Or in Dad's case he took a roll.
"Have I any grudge?" I said,
As we pulled back from water's edge,
"If I forgot to use the brake,
You'd swiftly end up in the lake!"
"Nothing like that, I would think"
We laughed and went to find a drink.
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And
so we ordered, sat to wait,
Hoped it wouldn't be too late,
My wandring eyes perchanced to fall
Upon two pictures on the wall,
Two fighting cocks from days long gone,
Yorkshire Hero, Phenomenon.
And as I took them in and read,
These fighting birds above Dad's head,
While we waited for our food,
My wandring mind began to brood,
And something I should quickly say,
My Dad's from somewhere far away,
Not Norfolk - way past Whissonset,
A Yorkshire Hero, came and met,
My mother, an East Anglian girl,
So followed her blue eyes and curls,
To salty marshland made his way,
And ever after that to stay.
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So how a hero?
you might ask...
Well fair enough - in times long past,
He'd gone to places far away,
He'd "had a good war" as they say,
They'd send him out to remote sites,
To take a look at damaged 'kites'
As once they called the aeroplanes,
And their shattered shot remains,
So he'd assess and specify,
What should be done then off would fly,
To desert fields, cross mountain range,
To situations rough and strange,
But even through the closest call,
Somehow he would survive them all.
Things in Norfolk
were more quiet,
Lived upon a steady diet,
Marriage, family life and work,
The small-town boys and girls he taught,
To wield the chisel, plane and saw,
To stoke the forge's mighty roar,
Had other things they'd like to do,
And try out so he taught them too,
How to build and rig a boat,
Then take and launch it, get afloat,
To paddle, row and then to sail,
Capsize, recover, and to bail.
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Then
later on, he found a craft,
That was designed for heavy graft,
All Norfolk wherries had long gone,
Except for one, the Albion.
And also Jack and Walter Cates,
Her one last skipper and his mate,
Brothers, though they'd just retired,
Found a bunch of guys inspired,
To learn what those two could impart
The wherryman's elusive art,
Doing things that seemed quite daft,
Like threading these enormous craft,
Built like floating battle-tanks,
Between the narrow river banks,
Fighting off the flies and midges,
Under mediaeval bridges,
With so little room to spare,
That passing tourists stood to stare,
And watch in total disbelief,
As there emerged from underneath,
The tiny arch of ancient stone,
A black-tarred monster fully grown,
That even as before them passed,
Their eyes, would raise again its mast,
And winching up its black-tarred sail,
Along the river like some whale,
That inexplicably had gone,
To swim around your garden pond.
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A crash came from
the kitchen door,
I looked around, I was once more,
Waiting for my long lost lunch,
Amidst an ordinary bunch,
Of people down a Norfolk boozer,
When I turned and saw a cruiser,
Heading straight towards our table,
I swear to you as I am able,
So to state and so affirm,
It surely gave me quite a turn,
Until I looked a second time,
And saw it was a pantomime,
Some old boat-builder's merry jape,
To build a bar-room in that shape,
And on the bows an old brass plaque
Informed the passing reader that,
It had been built and launched in state,
In the year of forty eight.
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And
so at last, we'd ate our meal,
The time comes when a man must deal,
He's got to do what he must do,
The Yorkshire Hero's challenge to,
Navigate the reaches far,
Of the Maltsters' public bar,
A real challenge so presents,
To make your way to find the gents,
For when you get to eighty seven,
It isn't easy to go leaven,
And relieve what nature needs,
To get there takes a hero's deeds,
So slowly on together past,
The bar-room hazards till at last,
We get to the appointed place,
Then after washing hands and face,
Searching for the strange machine,
That gives the necessary means,
To dry your hands with warm hot air,
Found the wrong machine just there,
That did not give expected drafts,
Until I looked and saw and laughed,
"Have you designs on that fine wench,
Who lately served you up your lunch?"
For if he'd not forgot his specs,
He would have read the word "Durex"...
"If she'd asked me to come and get it'
I'd have to tell her to forget it,
For all that she's a likely lass,
My likely days are all gone past."
So replied the Yorkshire Hero,
Woefully dismissed as zero,
As he passed out through the door,
Chances that he'd ever score,
"Take care" the
buxom barmaid says
"That's all I can do, nowadays!"
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So time to go and
seek my own,
Domestic hearth, leave him alone,
Dropped him off, so now he's gone,
Not back to his Phenomenon,
Between those new-found Drayton walls,
Rememb'ring all life's wins and falls,
Battles that he'd lost and won,
Yorkshire Hero, Phenomenon.
Andy Morley May
14th 2007
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Poems © Copyright Andy Morley 2007
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