His twilight years were mostly spent
With a ball in the local park
Kicking about with the local team
Having a laugh and a lark.
Yet still they couldn’t stop him
His old swerve worked a treat
Till he died at last with his boots on
Those most amazing feet.
Eyes down for Bingo (in his grave)
The final whistle blown
The fans rolled up from miles around
‘You’ll never walk alone!’
While Bingo’s spirit shimmied
With all its usual grace.
And then was… relegated
To a most appalling place
The Devil sat in his chairman’s chair
And spoke in Bingo’s ear
‘I’ve pulled a few strings, I must confess,
To arrange your transfer here.
For we’ve got this little match, y’see
(And I’ve got this little bet)
Away to the Heavenly City
And we’ve never beaten them yet.’
The Heavenly City were quite a side
(With fans who could really sing)
Cherubs and seraphs in the squad
And angels on the wing.
St Paul was a rock at centre half
St Elvis a rock ’n’roll
They had Mother Teresa to captain the team
And Almighty God in goal
The kick-off time was three o’clock
At the City’s heavenly ground
The angels of the Lord came down
And passed the ball around.
The tackles started flying
Nero fouled a nun
And the ref booked Good King Wenceslas
For a trip on Attila the Hun.
The Hades fans were howling
‘We’re the boys from Beelzebub!’
While God took Charlie Chaplin off
And brought Jesus on as a sub.
The second half went racing by
The pace was faster still
There was less than a minute left to play
And the score remained nil–nil.
Then Bingo dribbled round St Mark
Who never had a prayer
Left frail St Francis on his knees
And danced past Fred Astaire.
The goal was at his mercy now
It seemed he couldn’t fail
When – bang! – a tackle from behind
From Florence Nightingale
A penalty! The crowd was stunned.
The Devil’s lot gave thanks,
Though God in goal, the angels cried,
Was as good as Gordon Banks.
A cruel choice for Bingo
Whatever should he do
Be false to his god-given gifts
Or give the Devil his due?
Even God had a frown on His face
And powerful reasons to pray.
if I let this in, He told Himself
There’ll be the Devil to pay.
Now Bingo stepped up with the ball
And placed it on the spot
Stepped bade, breathed deep, ran calmly in
Then shimmied left… and shot.
∗
In nineteen hundred and twenty-two
A little boy was born
His baby cot was second-hand
His baby shawl was torn.
Who would have guessed that at the end
This tiny tot would be
The one who beat Almighty God
With the perfect penalty?
No goalie could have saved that shot
No God or Holy Ghost
But it went where Bingo placed it
And hit the holy post,
Rebounded like a rocket
To Marie Antoinette
Who skipped up to the other end
And slammed it in the net.
The fans in the stands went barmy
City had won one–nil.
The Devil stayed down in his dugout
Defeat was a bitter pill.
Till God came along with an offer
Quite genuine and real
To forget their bet and agree instead
On a little… transfer deal
So Bingo rose to Heaven
Up to the Pearly Gate.
‘The boy done good!’ St Peter cried
‘The boy done great!’
And there he lives… forever
His goals in life complete
That sainted soccer player
With the most amazing feet.
The fans in the stands are leaving
As fast as their wings will allow
They think that the story’s over
It is now.
3
The Actor’s Mother
Why Must We Go to School?
Polite Children
Lullaby for a Referee’s Baby
Bags I
I Did a Bad Thing Once
Father and Child
Lost
Getting Up for School
Our Mother
Things I Have Been Doing Lately
The Actor’s Mother
Bedtime
Why Must We Go to School?
Why must we go to school, dad?
Tell us, dear daddy, do.
Give us your thoughts on this problem, please;
No one knows better than you.
To prepare for life, my darling child,
Or so it seems to me;
And stop you all from running wild –
Now, shut up and eat your tea!
Why must we go to school, dad?
Settle the question, do.
Tell us, dear daddy, as much as you can;
We’re really relying on you.
To learn about fractions and Francis Drake,
I feel inclined to say,
And give your poor mother a bit of a break –
Now, push off and go out to play!
Why must we go to school, daddy?
Tell us, dear desperate dad.
One little hint, that’s all we ask –
It’s a puzzle that’s driving us mad
To find all the teachers something to do,
Or so I’ve heard it said,
And swot up the questions your kids’ll ask you,
My darlings – now, buzz off to bed!
Polite Children
May we have our ball, please
May we have it back?
We never meant to lose it
Or give it such a whack.
It shot right past the goalie
It shot right past the goal
And really then what happened next
Was out of our control.
It truly was such rotten luck
For all concerned that you
Were halfway up a ladder
When the ball came flying through.
We also very much regret
What happened to your cat
It’s tragic when an animal
Gets landed on like that.
Your poor wife too we understand
Was pretty much upset
When phoning for the doctor
And phoning for the vet,
She quite forgot the oven.
It simply is no joke
When your husband’s half unconscious
And your house is full of smoke.
The fire-brigade, of course, meant well
It wasn’t their mistake
That there was no fire to speak of
Just a bit of well-done steak.
Still clouds have silver linings
And pains are soon forgot
While your lawn will surely flourish
From the hosing that it got.
The game of life is never lost
The future’s not all black
And the ball itself seems quite unmarked.
&n
bsp; So… may we have it back?
Lullaby for a Referee’s Baby
The pitch is cold and dark
The night is dark and deep
The players all have gone to bed
So sleep, baby, sleep.
The whistle’s on the shelf
The boots are in a heap
The kit is in the laundry bag
So sleep, baby, sleep.
The house is warm and dark
The stairs are dark and steep
And Daddy’s here beside your cot
To send you off… to sleep.
Bags I
Bags I the dummy
Bags I the cot
Bags I the rubber duck
That other baby’s got.
Bags I the cricket ball
Wickets and bat
Bags I the hamster
Bags I the cat.
Bags I the pop records
Hear the music throb
Bags I the A levels
Bags I the job.
Bags I the sweetheart
Lovers for life
Bags I the husband
Bags I the wife.
Bags I the savings
The mortgage and then
Bags I the baby –
Here we go again!
Bags I not the glasses
The nearly bald head
Bags under eyes
And the middle-aged spread.
Bags I the memories
How it all began
Bags I the grandpa
Bags I the gran.
Bags I the hearing-aid
Bags I the stick
Bags I the ending
Quiet and quick.
Goodbye world!
Goodbye me!
Bags I the coffin
RIP.
I Did a Bad Thing Once
I did a bad thing once.
I took this money from my mother’s purse
For bubble gum.
What made it worse,
She bought me some
For being good, while I’d been vice versa
So to speak – that made it worser
Father and Child
Upon that sharp and frosty eve
Muffled in scarf and glove
With frosty snow beneath their feet
And frosty sky above:
A father and his child.
Climbing the narrow hilly street
With letters in their hands
And Christmas cards and packets too
To where the postbox stands.
The child runs on ahead
A cautious car comes ghosting by
An ebb and flow of light.
Somewhere an ice-cream van chimes out –
Ice-cream on such a night!
The child, though, would like one.
The father raises up his face
He stares into the sky
And marvels at the myriad stars
And hears his child reply:
It’s like a join-the-dots.
Back down the hill, now hand-in-hand
Father and child return
While overhead and unobserved
The frosty heavens burn.
And the child thinks: Ice-cream!
Lost
Dear Mrs Butler, this is just a note
About our Raymond’s coat
Which he came home without last night,
So I thought I’d better write.
He was minus his scarf as well, I regret
To say; and his grandma is most upset
As she knitted it and it’s pure
Wool. You’ll appreciate her feelings, I’m sure.
Also, his swimming towel has gone
Out of his PE bag, he says, and one
Of his socks too – it’s purplish and green
With a darn in the heel. His sister Jean
Has a pair very similar. And while
I remember, is there news yet of those fairisle
Gloves which Raymond lost that time
After the visit to the pantomime?
Well, I think that’s all. I will close now,
Best wishes, yours sincerely, Maureen Howe
(Mrs). P.S. I did once write before
About his father’s hat that Raymond wore
In the school play and later could not find,
But got no reply. Still, never mind,
Raymond tells me now he might have lost the note,
Or left it in the pocket of his coat
Getting Up for School
I’m getting up for school
Getting up for school
Getting, getting
Up for, up for
Soft-boiled egg and steamy cup for
Getting up for school.
I’ll soon be up for school
Soon be up for school
Soon be leaping
Striding (creeping!)
Bye-bye boring beds and sleeping
Out and off to school.
I’m nearly up for school
Nearly up for school
Nearly (really!)
Out of bed for
Rise and shine your sleepy head for
Leave that snug and steamy bed for
Steamy, dreamy soft-boiled bed for
Bed for, bed for…
Won’t be long now
Get – get – getting
In a minute
Up – up – up
Just a jiffy… Ah! (yawn)
For school
Our Mother
Our mother is a detective.
She is a great finder of clues.
She found the mud and grass on our shoes,
When we were told not to go in the park –
Because it would be getting dark –
But come straight home.
She found the jam on our thumbs,
And in our beds the tiniest crumbs
From the cakes we said we had not eaten.
When we blamed the cat for breaking the fruit bowl –
Because we did not want any fuss –
She knew it was us
Things I Have Been Doing Lately
Things I have been doing lately:
Pretending to go mad
Eating my own cheeks from the inside
Growing taller
Keeping a secret
Keeping a worm in a jar
Keeping a good dream going
Picking a scab on my elbow
Rolling the cat up in a rug
Blowing bubbles in my spit
Making myself dizzy
Holding my breath
Pressing my eyeballs so that I become temporarily blind
Being very nearly ten
Practising my signature…
Saving the best till last
The Actor’s Mother
No charming chatty Prince for him, Lines by the yard.
He mostly stands there with a spear: My son, the guard.
He never plays the Captain’s part,
Always the crew.
‘Aye, aye!’ he cries, occasionally.
His lines are few.
He doesn’t get the better roles, Takes after me.
Sometimes he never speaks at all: My son, the tree
The only time he got some lines, Just half a page,
He had to shout them through a door, Invisibly – offstage!
Still, curtains fall eventually,
And homeward in the car
His dad and I can then admire:
Our son, the star
Bedtime
When I go upstairs to bed,
I usually give a loud cough.
This is to scare The Monster off.
When I come to my room,
I usually slam the door right back.
This is to squash The Man in Black
Who sometimes hides there.
Nor do I walk to the bed,
But usually run and jump
instead.
This is to stop The Hand –
Which is under there all right –
From grabbing my ankles.
4
Billy McBone
Where I Sit Writing
The Boy Without a Name
The Slow Man
The Filling Station
Scabs
Worlds
Boys
It is a Puzzle
Sometimes God
Billy McBone
Balls on the Roof
The Mysteries of Zigomar
Only Snow
Where I Sit Writing
Where I sit writing I can see A page, a pen, a line or three Of scribbled verse; a cup of tea.
A spider’s web, a window pane, A garden blurred a bit with rain, A low and leaden sky; a plane.
Where I sit writing I can see
An evening sky, a sodden tree,
A window pane reflecting… me.
Out in the garden’s fading light,
Departing day, approaching night,
He copies every word I write.
Where I sit writing I can see
A hand, a pen, a verse or three;
A distant road; a cup – no tea
COLLECTED POEMS Page 4
