Poems 17


                      A Sequel to the Lament  (of last week)


It was writ in December (I think you’ll remember)

          A lament o’er those of our pals that have passed;

How I would remind them that though now behind them

She’d jolly soon teach them which one will be last

(Which one will be last they are learning it fast!)


Since that publication my own situation

          Has constantly forced me to be on my guard:

Hear feminine grumblings – ominous mumblings –

          Wait till I get to that doggerel bard….

          (On the doggerel bard it is going to be hard!)


Now ladies please reason, don’t say this is treason,

          A cynic of woman I’m not, as you think:

Don’t cry with ferocity that this wild monstrosity

          This doggerel bard – this splasher of ink

          In his inspired ink he will very soon sink!


I would never to Withnell go dashing pell mell

          Though sorry I feel for my poor comrade’s plight

I’m on something better – I’ve just got a letter

          And I’m heading for Wigan tonight

          (There’s somebody waiting at Wigan tonight!)



                              Historical decay of the We.R.7


Of We.R.7 quite a few

          Have joined the matrimonial section

Now who’d have thought this lively crew

          Could e’er have made this ill selection?


Bill Berry was the first to leave,

          (He got it hard did Bill Berry)

Not till the last could we believe

          That this complaint did Billy carry.


He said it was his spinal cord

          That somehow had got overladen –

Who would have took him at his word

          When in the case had come – a maiden?


Then Jack was next – a chap who swore

          His hate for girls, and none could doubt him

He said he’d flirt with girls no more

          (Until he found them round about him)


Poor Jack, he tried his best you know – 

          (He didn’t really understand ‘em)

But sure enough we saw him go –

          He’s going still – upon a tandem!


Then soon the end of Fred was nigh:

          One Sunday deep in Wales went skippen’

The Sunday after – hear the cry –

          “God help me lads, for I am slippen!”


Abram Fred, sometimes he’s out

          And sometimes you find him missing

While J.C.T. is oft in doubt –

          I fancy J.C.T.’s gone kissing!


‘Tis whispered Tom is slippen too –

          He has in Wales located heaven

Let me give a tip to you –

          It strikes me I’m the We.R.7


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>