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The Quarry 1961

By Martin Forster

It started off aged seven , climbing local quarry,
 thence began this saga, this tale, this story,
 this was a working quarry with blasts and large machines,
 but to me aged seven, they seemed like frightful , fiercesome fiends.
But after five all the workmen went on home,
 left us kids a battlefield , aye a playground to roam,
 well at the quarry there's an old nightwatchman,
 the stupid bespectacled buffoon,
 he'll ne'er catch us, the idiot the fool the goon,
but little did we know what a wily old sod he was,
 caught me by scruff of me neck, now I know who's boss,
 well he dragged me off to his filthy 'middin',
 there sat on dusty desk, were old copies of 'razzler' 'parade',
 'aye' you've guessed it lads, he'd been bloody fiddlin'.
'I ses to him let me go or i'll tell the fuzz',
 he ses 'nah' you little shit, now there's only the two of us',
 I started to get scared, his teeth were decayed, rotten and bad,
 I thought i'd cry and try to look gloomy, miserable and sad,
but no this old git, was not going to be fooled ,
 as he looked at me smiled and drooled,
 'th'all bend over, then you'll sit on my lap',
 I ses 'tha'll not have me, tha' just talks crap'.
 Suddenly a big noise and commotion was heard outside,
 'rescue our martin , my brothers and mates they cried',
 well they hurled rocks and stones at windows and door,
 it sounded just like satan, coming up thru' floor,.
 Well not to be beaten by a bunch of scruffy louts,
 'right i'm coming out , he vehemently shouts'.
 and again i'm caught b' scruff of my neck,
 this time i'm worried flipping heck,
 he rests his shotgun barrel on top of m' newly shaven head,
 'One move from you lot, this little shit 'll end up dead',
 well it all went quiet and a stand off took place,
 but Geoff we knew nothing could faze,
 Geoff was a champion wit' catapult he'd built,
 made from ash, strong and sturdy like a swordsmans hilt,
 Geoff was a deadly shot with marble or rock,
 Geoff wast' kid from tother end of block,
 so as he filled a big shiny blue marble into his soft leather pouch,
 'he shouted, Martin , Martin, get down, get down and crouch'.
 Well, geoff had pulled back on quarter inch block rubber,
 aye he'd pulled back with all of his strength,
 at least three feet now, the catapult had length.
 Geoff had hit things int past, aye both head and gullet,
 as it sped off from his soft leather pouch as fast as a bullet.
 Well that sleazy old nightwatchman, slowly slitherd to ground,
 that big shiny blue glass marble 'ant made no sound,
 but the effect when it hit him, in middle of yon head,
 the blood soon pooled , 'are kid' they cried, 'we've shot the bugger dead'.
 Well remember the moral of this saga, this tale this story,
 is, aye, don't mess with kids of the local estate,
 or you'll end up like the old nightwatchman,
 a terrible, sad, beleaguered, scurrilous and aye, what's even worse, a rather deadly FATE.

© All poetic works displayed on this website are copyright of the original autor. All rights reserved.


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