I write what I think, I write what I feel, I write about truths, And lies that aren’t real.
A poem from the book:
SCOUTING FOR BOYS
My eyes were stinging, as Brian was singing,
a rude song he'd learned, in the Scouts.
I couldn't stop giggling in fact mostly piddling,
I spent more time in the bushes, than out.
Bri's rucksack looked like, it belonged on the Klondike,
he was carrying everything under the sun.
Pumps rhythmically dancing, on long laces hanging,
were merrily banging a beat on his bum.
"Not far to go now, ' can't wait to sit down now,
me rucksack is doin' me back in."
There were pots and pans jingling, like Sunday bells ringing,
but they sounded like one had a crack in.
We pitched the tent quickly, by a lake full of midges,
that eat more of us, than we're having for tea.
Campfire now burning, hot sausages turning,
spitting with anger, aimed directly at me.
"I'm makin' an oven, so we can have puddin'"
said Bri' with this tin on his knee.
"It was in me dad's shed it's a bit rusty red,
but it will clean up, just wait and see."
With a salivating mumble, he produced rhubarb crumble,
from the depths of his rucksack, and that's no place to be.
and have it for breakfast with custard! He-he."
So early next morning, half deafened by snoring,
I searched for more kindling to awaken the fire.
Bri' needed the embers, from what he remembers,
so I sacrificed comfort, for the pain of the briar.
Our culinary Baden had already taken,
the crumble, and 'custards', of which, we had four.
It just wouldn't fit in, the old rusting cake tin,
Then he tripped on his sandals, and it dropped to the floor.
The crumble in pieces, sporting sprinkled sheep faeces,
fits easily now and, there's room for some more.
Tinned custard 'propped' corners, that'll get just as warm as,
the crumble now baking above, that's for sure.
Patiently waiting is 'flamin' frustrating,
when your stomach dictates the right time for some 'scran'.
The minutes last longer, the aches become stronger,
as you spend half a lifetime just watching the pan.
Launch-time was looming, thrusters now booming,
the countdown for lift-off had arrived, as was doomed.
Brian looked flustered, blast-painted in custard,
pointing skywards at the crumble on course for the moon.