Poetry

A Selection of Will Dallimore's Poetry

Will has been writing poetry for many years, here is a selection of some of his 'humorous' efforts. We start off with a poem which propounds that Stratford-Upon-Avon's favourite son, William Shakespeare, was not in fact from the famous leafy Warwickshire town, but was born 'up north', amongst the grimy coal-pits of Barnsley in Yorkshire. (Note: If you are visiting Stratford-Upon-Avon, then make time to visit the nearby riverside town of Evesham. Evesham is far prettier, far more historic, and above all doesn't contain anything associated with Shakespeare.)

Will Shakespeare was bought up in Barnsley
Surrounded by brass bands and coal
His mother went down pit at Grimethorpe
His father went down road for dole.

While cleaning out pigeons for father
Will made quills from the feathers I'm told
As Will's writings grew steadily longer
Father's pigeons grew steadily bald.

On a charabanc outing to Stratford
Will met a young lady named Ann
For Ann hath a way with the menfolk
And Ann hath her way with our man

They were married and settled near Stratford
But Ann's cooking was not all that good
For Will soon grew homesick for Yorkshire
And grew sicker of Ann's Yorkshire pud.

Will eventually moved back to Barnsley
Where he lived out the rest of his days
For Stratford had staked claim to Shakespeare
And Bacon had staked claim to plays.

Our second poem is about one of the British institutions—the 'Pub'. This refers to no pub in particular, especially not the two excellent public houses we have here in Badsey, the Wheatsheaf and the Round of Gras.

It was the first time that I'd been down local
Since landlord won 'Rough Pub Award'
There were blokes throwing darts in the corner
Which was odd 'cause there wasn't a board.

I asked for a pint in a straight glass
"A straight glass?" the landlord replied
He filled 'handled' glass up with best bitter
Then with hammer knocked handle off side.

The floor it was covered in sawdust
Across the room hung a nicotine hue
And where drinkers had scuffed feet in sawdust
Small patches of carpet showed through.

The landlady dragged on a Woodbine
Then coughed up her heart a right treat
She removed her false teeth for safe keeping
Then hit spittoon from twenty five feet.

Next we have a few limericks, these all have a local connection to Will's home village of Badsey. To help you understand them here are a few pointers. Bob-a-Job week is when the boy scouts go round the village once a year doing jobs for a bob ( 'bob' is the old name for a shilling, now 5 pence). Synehurst is a ex-council estate in Badsey, Geoff Hurst was a soccer-player who scored a hat-trick in the 1966 World Cup Final. The 'Rec' is the local name for the recreation ground at Badsey, the Ogg mentioned is Alec Ogg, who once played for, and now helps run Badsey Rangers, one of the local soccer teams.

A vicar of Badsey named Leak
Was renowned for his miserly streak
To save on the spending
When the church needed mending
He had it done bob-a-job week

Some footballing lads down Synehurst
Were trying to play like Geoff Hurst
But 'they think its all over'
When a passing steam roller
Runs over their ball and it's burst

A young Badsey housewife named Wright
Was dismayed that her whites were not white
So to stop neighbours spying
Her dingy clothes drying
She'd hang out her washing at night

A young soccer player named Ogg
Once played down the 'Rec' in thick fog
As he weaved down the wings
It appeared he'd run rings
'Round three cars, two trees, and a dog

Another British institution is the Royal British Legion, and here is a poem about the Women's Section. The local branch, the Badsey Aldington and Wickhamford RBL, was, and still is, overseen by Marge Syril. The poem is about a coach mystery trip that she may have organised.

The local British Legion held their annual mystery tour
And fifty lady members boarded coach at Clubhouse door,
They hadn't reached the top road when old Marge stood up and said,
"Let's guess where we are going, and pay 20p a head."

The ladies all applauded, then they searched for 20p's
And one young dear did volunteer to save old Marge's knees,
She started at the front seats getting everybody's choice
For quite a few said Dudley Zoo, and some said Hidcote Boyce.

After an hour or so the coach pulled into Weston-Super-Mare
And Marge rose to her feet again, the winner to declare,
She scanned the list of place-names and then said without reproach
"The winner is young Albert—the driver of the coach."

The following two poems are connected with Badsey Flower Show. Both were penned by Will as if they had been written by a young girl. The first is about her misfortune in the Children's cookery classes, and the second is her account of how her mother and herself tried to get into the Flower Show (held at the Rec) without paying. For the past five years Will has encouraged locals to put pen to paper by awarding a literature competition cup at the annual Flower Show. 2001 saw the 100th show and the cup was won by Elaine Major for her essay about the daisy.

Six plain scones and three gingerbread men
I'd hurriedly baked for the show
Five plain scones and two gingerbread men
Would have won first prize I know
But one plain scone and one gingerbread man
I'd burnt just a bit in my haste
And this one plain scone and this gingerbread man
Were the ones that the judges would taste

A long queue was forming beside the Flower Show gate
My mum and I decided that we simply couldn't wait
She said she had a cunning plan to save us having to pay
So we left the queue and gently wandered off a different way.

We walked along the fencing till we found a little gap
I squeezed between the wire, but my mum had a mishap,
The barbed wire fence had stopped her briefly in her tracks
But not before removing the backside of her slacks

She asked me for my jumper as we hid behind a tent
She tied it round her waist to cover her embarrassment
We strolled around the show without a hint of a disgrace
Until she partnered the vicar in the wheelbarrow race

The vicar grabbed her ankles and they started down the course
My jumper had become displaced to rapturous applause
It was a photo-finish with my mother in the frame
Now they say the vicar's sermons will never be the same

Finally, here is a poem for Christmas.

Father Christmas crashed his sleigh
Into our roof the other day
He said the reindeer were quite frisky
I think he'd had a drop of whisky

The jolly overweight buffoon
Sped off and circled round the moon
As he flew by I shook my fist
"Come back here, you vandalist."

A policeman rolled up on his bike
And said "I haven't seen the like."
"Its fire brigade you really need."
And promptly they arrived at speed

The firemen up their ladders ran
And covered hole in tarpaulin
By now a crowd had gathered round
Who cheered the firemen from the ground

A fireman known as 'builder Bob'
Said, "It could be expensive job."
"If you're insured then you're OK."
"But if you're not, you'll have to pay."

I dug out policy from drawer
And scanned each paragraph and more
It mentioned damaged done to roofs
But not a word on reindeer's hoofs

The moral of my story's plain
'Fore Christmas comes around again
Search out that policy of yours
And introduce a Santa clause.