Travelling Tinker Man and Other Rhymes Page 2

  Music plays in our strange world, Rock ’n’ Roll and boy meets girl.

  Buddy Holly, Beatles tunes, underneath that true blue moon.

  A constant mistress, my life, my love, good vibrations from above.

  Thank you, music, you saved my soul, with your Classics, Blues and Rock ’n’ Roll.

  Travelling tinker man

  I never met you, my grandad, Tom – only faded photos of you in the drom.

  I loved your wife and knew her well, sweet Nanny Kemp, Olive, Nell.

  I wonder what you would think of me, of what I’ve done, of what I’ve been.

  I feel your blood runs in my veins, blue eyes like mine, they look the same.

  What did you see, what stories untold? A travelling man, big and bold.

  How I wish, as a chav, I’d sat on your knee, as you told me of a land that was free.

  The open road, a horse, a wagon. Another time when dreams could happen.

  What would you think of this land, this time, when to live like you has become a crime?

  Don’t you worry, Tom, for in my sons, your spirit lives, you travel on.

  I thank you for what I am, Grandad Tom. A travelling man from a distant drom.

  Religion

  Fires burning in the east, religion, God, philosophy,

  From ages past they rear their heads, like ghosts arising from the dead.

  An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. This can’t be right, where is the truth?

  A holy mess of Man’s making, where is this God,

  When will he come to remedy what Man has done?

  To right the wrongs, to bring the peace, a flight of angels to release.

  Put out this fire, stop this hate. Stop hatred now, before it’s too late.

  Where is compassion, kindness, love? I thought that good came from God above,

  So why does the fire still burn in your soul, God-fearing man, as death takes its toll?

  Why no answer to your cries and needs?

  As the women and children, like fugitives, flee,

  As your brothers lie dying. For religion, you say.

  It doesn’t make sense, as you kneel and you pray.

  Like moths to a flame

  Look, that’s him, look, over there,

  I recognise him, with that long curly hair.

  How I’ve waited for this; I’m gonna ask for a kiss.

  You coming or not? Oh my God, he’s so hot.

  They said that he’d stay here, it’s him, crystal clear.

  I know that he’ll like me, I’m his number one fan;

  He’ll remember me, won’t he? He’ll know who I am.

  Are you coming, or not? Cos I’ll go on my own.

  Look! He’s about to go in and he’s there all alone.

  Now is the moment, now is our chance,

  What’s wrong with you, girl, are you stuck in a trance?

  Right now, that’s it. Hello, over here.

  Look, he’s turning around, my God, he’s so near.

  My knees are a-shaking, what shall I say?

  Oh no, it ain’t him! Shall we go? No, let’s stay.

  Dad

  You are my hero, you were my guide; I feel your love from the other side.

  Happy days I spent with you, those memories keep flooding through.

  Up on your shoulders, your strong hands, aboard those ships from foreign lands;

  A font of wisdom, a don’t do that, Golden Virginia, a trilby hat.

  The youngest child of thirteen others, a Scottish father and an English mother,

  It must have been so tough for you, neglected, poor and without shoes,

  But what a man you became, strong and decent, I bear your name.

  You influenced me and taught me right, taught me how to stand and fight.

  In the mirror now I look like you, looking back with your eyes of blue.

  I’m proud of that, my hero dad, father, son, the love we had.

  What days they were! Remember the time when all of us were doing fine.

  They gave us a pre-fab, our very first house, in a street near the docks in old Custom House.

  Mum made it a palace, she made it a home. We had no TV and no telephone,

  But a garden to play in and a house full of love.

  I know you’re still there, looking down from above.

  Firework night

  Roman candles, jumping jacks, rocket to the stars,

  Light touch-paper and retreat, as your rocket leaves for Mars.

  I love Guy Fawkes, with his Catholic bomb; he gave us November the fifth.

  Let the bonfire burn into the night, with him on top of it.

  Sparkle, dazzle, oohs and aahs, as the Gunpowder Plot explodes.

  When I was young, we’d never heard of this newfangled firework code.

  Bangers would bang, sparklers spark, Catherine wheels would spin.

  Rocket wars began as away we ran, me and my mate Jim.

  We made a contraption a bit like a cannon, from a pipe and a piece of wood,

  Load a ball bearing and some banger powder and it worked really good.

  Roman candles held in your hand, the fiery balls would fly

  Through the smoke-filled streets; it was really neat, taking the girls by surprise.

  What a time was had; I’m very glad health and safety did not exist,

  Cos we had fun, fun by the ton. It’s good to take a risk.

  All along the watch tower

  One two, one two, test.

  Go round the toms, Dave,

  That snare sounds the best.

  Gerry, you’re next; more, Reg, if you can,

  Have a word with Gavin, he’s your monitor man.

  I remember you, Reg, though I called you Paul,

  Standing out in front, in every hall,

  Concerned and caring, while me and the boys

  Blew you away with our musical toys.

  Vibrations, reverb, EQs digital,

  Tour manager, Reg, you did it all.

  A mixer, a master, an opener of wine,

  You made it happen – the show went on time.

  No encore, just curtains and why, Reg, so soon?

  Do the good die young, like you and Keith Moon?

  I remember the goodbye, the degradable box,

  All along the watch tower, Jimi rocks.

  We could hardly believe it, the band and your friends.

  Was this the last number, was this really the end?

  I’m glad you came back with that message you sent,

  Through that lady I met, in that mystical tent.

  Yes, I’ve met him, I’m happy, that’s what you said.

  I’ve met Jimi; he’s here, with some more of the dead.

  It’s gonna be all right

  I believe in a light that shines bright,

  I believe that a star will guide us through this night,

  This very strange night.

  I believe there’s a path we’ll find,

  Memories we will leave behind, on this night,

  This blackest night.

  I hear you calling out to me,

  I hear the wind whisper in the trees.

  It’s gonna be all right.

  Here we stand with our world upside down,

  Not a word, not a sigh, not a sound.

  It’s a very strange night.

  All the plans that we thought we’d made,

  All the dreams now seem to fade.

  They’re tumbling down, down to the ground.

  I hear you calling out to me,

  I hear the wind whisper in the trees,

  It’s gonna be all right.

  Don’t worry that the sun will rise;

  Dry those tears, the tears you cry.

  It’s just a matter of time, things will be fine.

  We have love, it will see us through.

  Look, you’re smiling, look at you.

  The sun will rise, so dry your eyes.

  I hear you call
ing out to me,

  I hear the wind whisper in the trees.

  It’s gonna be all right.

  Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner

  I remember that foggy morning, the East End, cobbled street,

  Long shorts, knitted jumper and sandals on my feet.

  This was it, the lorry trip, off to another world,

  Where birds can sing, where cows are milked by pretty country girls.

  Now climb on the lorry, folks; get on, there’s loads of room.

  We will be through Blackwall Tunnel and get to Kent by noon.

  On through the famous tunnel in a cloud of blue exhaust,

  To trees and fields and fresher air. Look, Mum! There’s a horse.

  Country lanes, they look like cows. I saw a haystack, Mum.

  Well, make a wish, it might come true. Sit down, be careful, son.

  We trundle on, up over hills and over greener dales.

  A band of Cockneys singing songs, the wind now in our sails.

  Through the garden, garden of England, from old London town.

  A lorryload of hop pickers, a bushel for a pound.

  Down the dirt track, to the farm, on to the sheds we go,

  To find our bunks in our new home, pronto, toe to toe.

  Fill the mattress full of hay, the farmhand leads the way;

  Find our bunks, it’s home from home for our country stay.

  Grown ups talk of this and that, kids still full of life;

  Bedtime now, get washed and changed, everything’s all right.

  Time now, boy, to hit the hay, tomorrow’s a big day.

  There’s work to do, hops to pick and you need to earn your pay.

  Communal wash, pyjamas on, I climb into my bed.

  Now off to sleep, Mum says to me. Come on now, sleepyhead.

  Drifting off, I can hear the sound of the campfire’s crackling glow,

  Conversations, a song or two, from voices I don’t know.

  At the crack of dawn a cockerel crows, it’s as if he seems to know

  It’s time to rise, open up your eyes and off to work you go.

  Mum’s impressed, I’m washed and dressed, ready, willing and able.

  We leave the hut, Mum, Nanny and me and pass the horses’ stable.

  My Nan’s been picking hops in Kent, probably all her life;

  She loves it here, she knows the ropes, the tinker’s little wife.

  The pole man says a warm hello to Nan and Mum and me.

  I bet the boy won’t pick too much, he’ll be off climbing a tree.

  The tall hop vines, the happy times, the bins soon full of hops,

  My Nan and Mum, having fun, as the picking never stops.

  I pick a few, like you do, but pretty soon I see

  A boy I know from Custom House, half way up a tree.

  I disappear from the smell of beer into the autumn air.

  It was brilliant and different my hopping holiday. Yeah!

  The pavilion

  We sat in the pavilion, well, really a shed.

  It should brighten up later, somebody said.

  The rain, like a cloudburst, rattled the roof.

  Ginger then said, I’ve got a bad tooth,

  If we do go out to play, I don’t want to bowl.

  I’ll bat if you like, I’ll honour my role.

  It’s lightening up, the sun’s breaking through,

  Let’s toss up and play, if it’s all right with you.

  The butcher, the builder, the geography teacher prepared to enter the fray.

  I’ll open this end, the end with wind, said fast bowler Ray.

  All dressed in white, let’s keep it tight, no singles and stay on your toes.

  Ball number one, a crack of the bat, leather against willow.

  Off to mid-on, almost a catch, but a beautiful return throw.

  This game is tradition, this game is the Empire, played in sister lands.

  It is more than a game, a sport that is sporting. That ball just went to hand!

  Cerebral, physical, as the scoreboard changes to a wicket or a four,

  Where victors and losers will meet for a beer and banter just like before.

  Talk about tactics and their teammates’ antics. I’ll see ya, I can’t really stay.

  Can you play next week? I’ll let you know, is it home, or is it away?

  All the pennies in the world

  All the pennies in the world and a jugful, that’s what you mean to me;

  Those sparkling eyes, those gypsy eyes, warm and bright and free.

  A wonderful one, the sacrifice, the tragic stolen years;

  You gave and gave in every way, holding back your tears.

  Every thought and wish you dreamed were meant for me alone,

  Forgive the way it had to end, for I couldn’t face the truth.

  I should have been there, there with you, under the same roof.

  Well, all is fine, the kids are good, growing every day.

  I know you keep an eye on them, in your special way.

  You dancing girl, you grandmother, I miss you every day.

  So many things bring memories, but all I want to say

  Is, you are great, I miss you, mate and I hope you are OK.

  Fly the moon, autumn leaves drift by your window now;

  A can can kick, a clever trick; dear Dolly, take a bow.

  Shining stars

  Josef, Daisy, George, David, Sophie and Finlay,

  Like shining stars fell into my life.

  One by one they fell from heaven and lit every dark moment.

  Some giggled, some smiled, some cried for a while,

  Some ran like the wind, mile upon mile.

  Treasures of the future, heartaches to come,

  I would love to be there when their races are run.

  What adventures, what dreams, what lives to be had,

  I hope some remember their silly Grandad.

  The one with a story, the one with a tale

  Of dragons and knights, over hill, over dale.

  Of ice creams and chocolates, when Mummy said no.

  When the world said stop, I was the one that said go.

  There on the touchline, still there when I’m gone,

  Watching from somewhere just how they get on.

  Guiding and hoping their dreams will come true,

  My daughter and sons will help them pull through.

  So blessed with their laughter and to comfort their tears,

  Just make sure they are special, in the long coming years.

  Silver bird

  I get on a plane now and again, but never understand why

  A big silver bird of metal and stuff can ever actually fly.

  There are bags in the hold, folk in the cabin, tons of fuel inside,

  So how does it do it, fly like a bird, up into the sky?

  Down the runway it goes, carrying its load, with a roar and a muted scream;

  Up and away through the grey sky we fly, in Man’s flying machine,

  To horizons new, where the sky is so blue and seat belts duly fastened.

  With the land far below, upwards we go, bemused and a little bit frightened.

  But dinner is served, as the plane takes a swerve, somewhere over Ireland.

  There are films on board too, to help us get through that horrible, endless flight.

  Merrily we go, packed head to toe, on and into the night.

  The glamour is past, like cows in a shed and sardines packed real tight.

  When I get off this thing, I’m really hoping this flight will be my last.

  We start our descent, when orders are sent, as clouds go rushing past.

  We finally land, near the sea and the sand, and depart the giant bird.

  Broken and bent, red-eyed and spent, to security I’m referred.

  So I join the big queue, with the cattle that flew, reasonably undeterred.

  There was glamour once, I bet there was, a civilised, stately trip.
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  If I don’t get out of this airport real soon, I think I’m gonna flip.

  Remembrance

  He stood at the Cenotaph, old but not bent,

  Remembering, just remembering.

  His medals shone brightly, his beret pristine,

  Watching the ceremony, surveying the scene.

  Old soldiers en masse, warriors all,

  Standing like oak trees, strong now and tall.

  A wreath full of poppies, a tribute to men;

  In homage to them, he remembers again,

  The shell-shocked, the lost, the forgotten lost souls.

  He holds back the tears, the eleventh hour tolls.

  Those wars to end war, for freedom, for all;

  We must never forget, those that would fall.

  Those men and those women, he remembers the time

  When the washing was hung on the Siegfried Line,

  When pals watched your back, when Lucifers lit,

  When Tommy screamed, when Tommy was hit.

  He remembers and wonders, why them and not me?

  I made it back, to dear old Blighty.

  We danced in the streets that were broken and torn;

  We hugged and we kissed, as a new age was born.

  He stands and remembers, as tributes are laid

  And hopes in his heart that their memory won’t fade.

  Beano day

  Oi Mum, what’s today? Is today Beano day?

  Get ready for school, that’s all Mum would say.

  But it’s Thursday, I said, it is Beano day.

  That’s tomorrow, you stinker; today is Wednesday.

  Oh blimey, I said, with a big grumpy frown,

  I thought it was Thursday, wot a let down.

  Here’s your football shirt, son, now go comb your hair.

  Where’s me football boots, Mum?

  Open your eyes! Over there.

  Are you watching the match? Cos Dad is at work;

  I reckon we’ll win. Where d’ya put my shirt?

  I don’t think I can, son; I’ve got too much to do.

  Get ready now, please, cos I’m waiting for you.

  I think I was supposed to take back that book,

  The one that I borrowed, the one Jimmy took.