R
Robert Harrison
Guest
IT'S HER TURN
MY WIFE IS ON THE COMPUTER,
IT IS HER TURN TO GO ONTO THE NET.
IT WOULD BE SENSCIBLE TO HAVE TO PHONE LINES
BUT WE CANNOT AFFORD IT JUST YET.
THE PENSION IS NOT DUE UNTIL THURSDAY,
WHO CAN SAY WHAT WE WILL DO WHEN IT COMES.
WE CAN EITHER APPLY FOR ANOTHER PHONE LINE,
OR I CAN BE PATIENT AND TWIDDLE MY THUMBS.
THOUGH TO SQUANDER MY TIME IN TWIDDLING
WOULD SEEM AN AWFUL WASTE IF TIME.
SO READ ON DEAR FRIENDS, READ ON
AND A TRUE STORY I WILL TELL OF MINE.
BROUGHT UP IN THE SLUMS OF BIRMINGHAM,
IN A TINY HOUSE REFERED TO AS AN ABODE.
NUMBERING SIX IF YOU COUNT MOM AND DAD
AT ONE BACK OF TWO FIFTY BALSALL HEATH ROAD.
THE ROOMS WERE SMALL AND ALWAY DAMP,
AND GREEN MILDEW SMEARED THE WALLS,
NOT LIKE THE POSH HOUSES UP THE ROAD,
WITH THEIR POSH PAPERED ROOMS AND HALLS.
OUR FIRE WAS ALWAYS KEPT BURNING
TO KEEP AT BAY THE DAMP AND CHILL.
AND AT NIGHT WE LIT THE GAS MANTLE
BY DAD REACHING UP WITH LIGHTED SPILL.
MY TWIN BROTHERS WERE ALWAYS SICKLY
BECAUSE OF THE CONDITIONS WE SURVIVED,
AND THEY BOTH DIED AT AROUND FIFTY,
I MISS THEM, BUT THEIR TIME HAD ARRIVED.
IT WAS MARY STREET SCHOOL I ATTENDED,
I REMEMBER MY MOM TAKING ME THERE
KICKING AND SCREEMING FOR ALL I WAS WORTH,
"MOMMY, MOMMY IT'S NOT FAIR, IT'S NOT FAIR.
IF I SAY IT MYSELF I WAS A BEAUTIFUL CHILD,
WITH A HEAD CROWNED WITH LOVELY BLONDE CURLS.
WHAT A SHAME I DID NOT HAVE THEM AT SIXTEEN,
OH THE GIRLS, THE GIRLS, THE GIRLS.
WELL BY THE TIME I WAS FIVE OR THERE ABOUT,
WE WERE REHOUSED "TO MY FAIR BILLESLEY",
YOU MAY HAVE READ THAT POEM OF MINE?
BUT THEN,YOU COULD HAVE MISSED IT OUT.
EXCUSE ME, MY TURN TO GO ON THE NET.
MY WIFE IS ON THE COMPUTER,
IT IS HER TURN TO GO ONTO THE NET.
IT WOULD BE SENSCIBLE TO HAVE TO PHONE LINES
BUT WE CANNOT AFFORD IT JUST YET.
THE PENSION IS NOT DUE UNTIL THURSDAY,
WHO CAN SAY WHAT WE WILL DO WHEN IT COMES.
WE CAN EITHER APPLY FOR ANOTHER PHONE LINE,
OR I CAN BE PATIENT AND TWIDDLE MY THUMBS.
THOUGH TO SQUANDER MY TIME IN TWIDDLING
WOULD SEEM AN AWFUL WASTE IF TIME.
SO READ ON DEAR FRIENDS, READ ON
AND A TRUE STORY I WILL TELL OF MINE.
BROUGHT UP IN THE SLUMS OF BIRMINGHAM,
IN A TINY HOUSE REFERED TO AS AN ABODE.
NUMBERING SIX IF YOU COUNT MOM AND DAD
AT ONE BACK OF TWO FIFTY BALSALL HEATH ROAD.
THE ROOMS WERE SMALL AND ALWAY DAMP,
AND GREEN MILDEW SMEARED THE WALLS,
NOT LIKE THE POSH HOUSES UP THE ROAD,
WITH THEIR POSH PAPERED ROOMS AND HALLS.
OUR FIRE WAS ALWAYS KEPT BURNING
TO KEEP AT BAY THE DAMP AND CHILL.
AND AT NIGHT WE LIT THE GAS MANTLE
BY DAD REACHING UP WITH LIGHTED SPILL.
MY TWIN BROTHERS WERE ALWAYS SICKLY
BECAUSE OF THE CONDITIONS WE SURVIVED,
AND THEY BOTH DIED AT AROUND FIFTY,
I MISS THEM, BUT THEIR TIME HAD ARRIVED.
IT WAS MARY STREET SCHOOL I ATTENDED,
I REMEMBER MY MOM TAKING ME THERE
KICKING AND SCREEMING FOR ALL I WAS WORTH,
"MOMMY, MOMMY IT'S NOT FAIR, IT'S NOT FAIR.
IF I SAY IT MYSELF I WAS A BEAUTIFUL CHILD,
WITH A HEAD CROWNED WITH LOVELY BLONDE CURLS.
WHAT A SHAME I DID NOT HAVE THEM AT SIXTEEN,
OH THE GIRLS, THE GIRLS, THE GIRLS.
WELL BY THE TIME I WAS FIVE OR THERE ABOUT,
WE WERE REHOUSED "TO MY FAIR BILLESLEY",
YOU MAY HAVE READ THAT POEM OF MINE?
BUT THEN,YOU COULD HAVE MISSED IT OUT.
EXCUSE ME, MY TURN TO GO ON THE NET.
