Bond Street with David Beckham
Now I’m fifty-three
I find it kinda scary,
That my hair has started falling out
And my ears have gone all hairy.
But, I like the finer things in life
And I like to window shop.
To mooch about the snazzy streets
And imagine I’m a fop.
So there I am on Bond Street one day
Dreaming of the past.
In my mind I’m cool and groovy
But it isn’t going to last.
Then suddenly a door burst open
And a dark man pushed right past.
I know that bloke, I thought,
And then it came to me quite fast.
He got into his double R
Parked up against the kerb.
I looked in through the window
His look said ‘Don’t disturb’.
I hesitated for a moment
And the engine roared to life.
I’ll stand back here a second
He must be waiting for his wife.
I had a little cogitate
As I was feeling rather mellow.
Then again it dawned on me
I do recognise that fellow
He drove his car along the road
Only sixty yards, no more.
I could have jogged up to see him
But, I didn’t want to be a bore.
The door swung open and he got out,
And now it was they saw.
An electric current passed down the street
The place was in uproar.
Baker-boy cap pulled to one side
And narrow skinny jeans.
Retired from sport, of any sort
How does he stay so lean?
A hundred phones pulled out,
Held up against the sky.
All aimed as one at one so young,
This oh-so famous guy.
Then I felt quite sorry,
Does this happen a lot d’you reckon?
Of course it does, indeed it must.
If you are David Beckham.
Around the world
There is a scene,
That sets a backdrop
For the Oval Green.
Built to last
In the reign of Vicky.
The dodgy builder
Took the mickey.
To correct the fault
They tried again.
It was as right as rain.
Ready they say for
Test Match Cricket.
That first game’s wicket.
It’s planned destruction
Caused a storm.
The Oval without it
Would look forlorn.
Good news today,
Lest the future hate us.
The structure's been given
Grade II Status.
(To explain, the Victorian gasholder that looms over the Oval
cricket ground in south London has been granted Grade II status.)
No dog for me
Write about your self she said
And my teacher I obeyed
I showed it to my father
It left him quite dismayed
Not the description of my person
Or the main content of my log
Just one line at the end
That I hadn’t got a dog
He sat me down and explained to me
The problem with my situation
That a dog isn’t really suitable
When you live in our location
Imagine that we had a Newfoundland
Now that would be quite grand
But the trouble with this doggy type
Is that four foot six they stand
We wondered about a Daschund
Now that’s a little critter
But what if some giant took him
And made a sausage fritter
Perhaps something lively
Oh that I would adore
A friend that’s really bouncy
I’d love a Labrador
We’ve got a friend called Monty
We see him at our school
He’s a tough but charming boxer
And we think he’s really cool
We could have a little Snautzer
A wire haired little chappy
But I think they’re territorial
And can turn out rather snappy
A Dalmation is a lovely beast
Their coat is white and spotty
But imagine it running round the place
It would drive us all quite dotty
Some dog’s coats are shaggy
And some their coats are smooth
But there’s always hair to clear up
And perhaps we’d have to move
So you see there’s much to consider
And a lot to think about
When all these things are weighed up
Then there has to be a doubt
Because a dog needs his space
And a lot of exercise
If you deprive them of these things
They have the saddest eyes
Then there’s the problem of their habits
And we’d need a bag and scooper
Imagine all the mess there’d be
If we had a profuse pooper
Above all we live in a terraced house
There’s not room to swing a cat
If we tried it with a dog
We’d knock the place quite flat
Then the RSPCA would call
And tell us off quite soundly
They’d take our canine buddy from us
Which would effect us all profoundly
So let’s not join the Kennel Club
Let’s stay as we are
Play with Grandma’s on occasions
And admire them from afar.
The King and the Wombat
The King had a Wombat
He had won him in a bet
He took him to the Palace
After a visit to the vet
The King was quite a bossy man
He liked to get his way
The Wombat he grew tired of this
And the Wombat ran away
In the Palace gardens the Queen was tired and restless
‘Will you play some ‘Wom’ with me? I’m feeling rather flat.’
The King replied ‘I would, my dear!’
‘But we haven’t got a bat.’