Saturday 13 March 2010 9.27pm
I'm 'Billy-no-mates' tonight, as the rest of the family are out doing various things. I've been rooting around through some of the scribblings I did some years back, when I had the writing bug.(Something I am thinking of rekindling.)I came accross the following piece of doggerel, one of the many I wrote back then to amuse my kids. I'd like to share it with those of you who, like me, are of a certain age, as it might bring back some memories.
(Jan, this is all your fault. Starting me off again on that other thread when you mentioned bomb sites.)
I often think of my old house,
though it's no longer standing.
The mildew and the rising damp,
the spiders on the landing.
I smile and call them 'good old days,'
though comforts were too few.
No modern low-flush W.C.,
just a chilly, outside loo.
Tiles were missing from the roof,
it creaked and groaned with age.
Wind whistled through the window panes,
amid the winter's rage.
Carpets? Electricity? They were only dreams,
I had lino and gas mantles 'til I was in my teens.
The bombsites were my playgrounds,
where I had hours of fun.
A broomstick for a fighting spear,
two fingers for a gun.
We built camps from bricks and milk crates,
we gave them fancy names.
Played cowboys and Indians,
and other war-like games.
I once went back to my old house,
for just one final look.
With feelings mixed I witenessed,
the last chapter in the book.
My old house was rubble,
something else would take its place.
A brand new block of high-rise flats,
reaching in to space.
Carpets, electricity,colour t.v's too,
those folks will never sit upon a chilly, outside loo.
They'll have fruit upon the sideboard,
hot water in the tank.
For what they are about to receive,
the good Lord they should thank.