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Here's a little ditty I've written tonight.

If with the Queen of the Midlands you have links
Then you should join Nottstalgia methinks
Where your fond memories with others you can share
And get answers you probably won’t find elsewhere
From schooldays, teen years to more recent times
History, games, workplaces and pastimes
There’s something on the site for everyone
So why not join – you’ll have some fun

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[Seen elsewhere, author not credited]   The outside toilet.   In deep midwinter freezing cold, Walked down the path, feeling bold, Needed to go, just couildn't wait,

Ha, ha ! It reminds me of the old tale of the general during WW1, who asked his radio operator to 'Send reinforcements, we're going to advance'. When the message passed through various stages, it fina

Spotted this Pam Ayres ditty in another group and thought it might appeal to those in here what likes poytrie:   The missus bought a Paperback, down Shepton Mallet way, I had a look insi

YOU ARE THE SUNLIGHT ON THE FIRST FLOWER OF SPRING

THE SUMMER SUNSHINE GLISTENING

A SONGBIRD ON A BOUGH OF TREES

AN ENCHANTING PATH OF AUTUMN LEAVES

A PURE WHITE FLAKE OF FALLING SNOW

A SHINING LIGHT IN WINTER GLOW.

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THE GLORIOUS DEAD

HANDS REACH OUT OF FRIEND AND FOE

FINGERS DRIP WITH BLOOD

NO FURTHER MUD AND MIRE TREAD

BRAVE HEARTS NO MORE WILL GO

NO WAVING BANNER OR FLYING FLAG

NO BAND TO MARCH THEM HOME

ONLY MEMORIES IN SOME CEMETERY

OF MEDALS MADE OF STONE

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I spend so much precious time

Trying to find a proper rhyme

To round off every precious line.

I find one, then I say 'That;s fine',

But when I check it, I say 'Strewth'!

That don't rhyme, and that's the truth'!

Then I turn and sadly bin it,

And that's the best thing really, i'n it!

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Instead of drinking water,
They gave me thinking water
Now I’m really smart.
And instead of ice cream,
They gave me nice cream,
Now I’ve got a big heart.
Instead of hot sauce,
They gave me snot sauce,
Now my tongue is gooey when I talk.
And instead of candy bars
They gave me sandy bars,
Now my mouth is full of rocks.
And instead of tribal stories,
They read me bible stories,
Now I want to be a preacher
And instead of kool-aid
They gave me school-aid.
But I still don’t like my teacher
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We'll mek us way down ter th' shinny

tek a bottle o' watter wi' thi'

pick n' pockle apples meller

play hide n' seek down us cellar

wip' n' top n' patterns twirl

blu' fer a boy n' pink fer a girl

click us clogs on cobble stones

jump or' t' puddles filled wi' t' moon.

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On my favourite topic......................

Steam Fitter 1967

For steam locomotives the end is in sight,

We work on those engines all day and all night.

So ill-maintained, nobody cares,

The giant steam locos are running on prayers.

Steam leaks from every nut joint and gland,

Side boxes empty, devoid of sand.

Shortage of fitters, shortage of parts,

He needs the tools before he can start.

Brake linkage sticking, blocks bare and worn,

Cab full of dirt, the fabric all torn.

Big ends all knocking, easily heard

Smoke boxes clogged, and boilers all furred.

Fire tubes a-leaking, struggling to steam.

Those engines are dying, they'll never redeem.

We patch up an engine if there's any hope

Of it pulling a train, if it can cope.

Tighten up nuts, put on make-shift brake blocks,

Make sure the valve gear and rods interlock.

If the boiler can steam no matter how poor,

We dispatch the engine to do one day more.

But if it is past it or there are no parts,

It goes to the scrapyard, deluded and stark.

But this is just how they are all doomed to end,

When they are finished, too far gone to mend.

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My first poem, about the destruction of buildings in Nottingham, was in the Demolished Memories thread back in June. I said that it was one of only two that I had written, and had put them away. The other one, written over twenty years ago, is reproduced below. I have no idea what prompted me to write it, but it was obviously in one of my soppy moments - I get them from time to time!

 

Suki Murden

 

Suki Murden, lovely girl,

Brown in eye, hair acurl.

Cheeks in bloom, loves to peep,

Gingham dress, dimple deep.

 

Started school, doing well,

She's a clever little gel.

Lots of friends, lots of games,

Lots to learn, lots of names.

 

Growing now, in her teens,

Gone is gingham, on with jeans.
Make-up on, full of song,

Going to work, courting strong.

 

Down the aisle now Mrs Smith is,

Cutting cake, amid best wishes.

Honeymoon overseas,

Just the two, sans families.

 

Married life, abloom like heather,

Doing lots of things together.

Going here, going there,

Mr and Mrs, the devoted pair.

 

Time goes by, expectations,

It's a girl, congratulations.

Five years on, a gingham kid,

Goes to school, like mum once did.

 

Older now, daughter married,

Lonely though, husband buried.

Slowing down, aches and pains,

Features wrinkled, grey in mane.

 

Looking back, life was worth it,

Providing her with naught but profit,

And of her memory none deplore,

Darling Suki is no more.

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The poetry of Bilbraborn on the whole is not forlorn

Like that one posted up by Carni, her grandad made quite a barnie,

Unlike writings done by Chulla, of romance they could not be fuller.

Lines of youth by Michael Booth are not the sort of thing to sooth,

As those transcribed by Hippo Girl, who went and gave the art a twirl.

Offerings by one Dave N, they edify us now and then,

Karlton lent artistic grace, (is she named Karlton for the place)?

And to the pen these poems call us, as they do with poet Paulus,

And as they do indeed to me, and call they do to Mick2me.

So all these poems De Da Pete, must have left you quite replete

But if you haven't had enough, ask Shakespeare, he knows all that stuff!

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B is for its beauty, out of six give seven,

U, it's undeniably, a residential heaven.

L tells us let's live there, with the intelligentsia,

W is the wonder, that always overwhelms yer.

E for expectations, it never lets you down,

L is for the mighty Leen, it flows right through the town.

L again for lovely place, please excuse my mirth,

Together they spell Bulwell, a paradise on earth.

Well, Albert Brown liked it!

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  • 4 weeks later...

Saturday mornings

 

On Saturday morns a long time ago, with our thepenny-bit in hand,

To the flicks we would go, like moths to a flame, so throughout in the land.

Every week it was the same, a western, Disney's mice,

To get you back the following week, a serial would entice.

 

Bedlam reigned, no-one kept quiet, but heard above the din,

Came six-gun shots, horses hooves and voices from within.

For me it was the Vernon, and the Aspley I did attend it,

For you, perhaps, the Metropole, the Forum or a fleapit.

 

Every week it never changed, the routine was a must,

Come rain or shine we had to see the cowboys bite the dust.

Rogers, Autry, Hopalong, and don't forget their side-kicks,

Twirling guns, cracking whips, all demonstrating their tricks.

 

Their aim was true, I kid you not, I swear it is no riddle,

A tossed-high dollar coin was shot right through its middle.

Bullet wounds quickly healed, especially for our hero,

They had to live another day, the black-hat baddies not so.

 

Now and then a cowgirl showed, skirt among the chaps - geddit?

Interest waned when they on screen, though perhaps none said it.

Not for us the female frame, that interest anon,

Just men of steel, tough as boots, who tamed the West now gone.

 

Picture houses, glory past, other uses put to,

Gone for good most of them, replaced by prospects anew.

Those days are gone, nothing lasts, and this I say so sadly,

Today's young lads and girls will never know the joy that was our Satdy.

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If ever you should go and choose to follow your poetic muse,

Never think it has to rhyme, I found this out myself for I'm

Always trying to find a word, and really folks, it's quite absurd

To follow such a rule pedantic, for who knows what this means - 'iambic'?

No, just give to your creation that thing called 'alliteration',

And having done so your work might be just like mine, a load of sh----------te!

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  • 2 weeks later...

Here's a rhyme we used to chant when we were kids - anyone remember it?

 

Scab and matter pudding, green phlegm pie,

All mixed up with a dead dog's eye,

Wash it down quick with a bottle of sick,

Scab and matter pudding, green phlegm pie.

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Our version, scab and matter pudding

green snot pie

all mixed together with a dead dogs eye

get a slice of bread and spread it on thick

then wash it down

with a cup of cold sick.

Followed by multiple shouts of errrrrrr yer detty bo66ers

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  • 2 weeks later...

Remember this one Carnie and katyjay?

 

Pounds, shillings and pence,

I saw a dirty wench,

Picking her nose and eating the crows,

Pounds, shillings and pence.

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Can't remember that one Chulla, but you have started my day with a laugh.

Feeling lazy this morning, so I am browsing the threads, to see what I have missed. You inspired me to read through the poetry, and what a talented group of Poets we have on Nottstalgia. Afraid i don't seem to have the Knack. I might give it a try one day. Some thing for you all to look forward to! I think not! :biggrin:

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Chulla, I remember that one, most likely chanted when juggling 2 balls up against the kitchen wall. (And mam yelling from inside, stop that bleddy thumping racket)

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A Poem About Tomatoes

We are blessed in Australia to have such an abundant wealth of talented story tellers through whom future generations can learn of their history and 21st century lifestyle.

Here is a classic example:

A Poem About Tomatoes

I know a bloke whose name is Jim,
I really love throwing tomatoes at him,
Tomatoes are soft and don't hurt the skin,
But these feckers do, because they're still in the tin


The warmth and heart wrenching simplicity of Australian bush poetry can bring a tear to the eye.

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Bonfire Night 1964 K

It’s Bonfire night the excitement grows

The dark night creeps up over Annesley Rows

We started collecting way back in September

Our wood for the fire on the Fifth of November

A branch form an Oak tree a Larch and a Birch

Tarpaulin and tyres, a roof from a stable,

A Gorse bush some plywood and next doors old table

Don’t stack it early for someone to light

You know what happened last Mischievous night

Old clothes, string and paper, we made us a Guy

When on top of the bonfire he must touch the sky

Fried onions, roast taters hot dogs and peas

Ketchup or mint sauce just as you please

Everyone had the best bonfire that night

Ours was so big it took ages to light

Get your old togs on and wear a wool hat

Shout in the dog and bring in the cat

At seven o’clock the village is aglow

Hey! Look at that one just up the row

He’s lighting a Rocket as everyone flocks

You never get Bangers in a Two an Six box

Sparklers were only a tanner a packet

Hark at that Air Bomb, don’t half make a racket

Volcanoes and Snowstorms don’t last very long

Some nippers are singing the Bonfire Night song

The Spinning Wheel brightens old Dan’s garden shed

Don’t touch that Sparkler it’s only just dead

The fire now is roaring you have to stand back

Look out! He’s lighting an Old Jumping Jack

The bangs and the screams and colours galore

I’ve run out of sausage I’ll fry up some more

The sky is lit up by a Ninepenny Rocket

Don’t keep Bangers down there in your pocket

Stand clear be careful you’ll have lots of fun

With Canon, Little Demon and old 3-2-1

I’m feeling the cold take my gloves from my pocket

Get ready you lot, here’s the last rocket

Just a red glow now the fire is dying

My dad has gone in and my mam has stopped frying

The night’s chill gets to me but the smoke still lingers

I’m feeling the cold in my feet and my fingers

The bathroom’s steaming the water feels fine

I’ve stayed up so long it’s about half past nine

The times now have changed as I write this odd ode

Now we teach our children the Fireworks Code

Gary Roe ©

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Here's one from my boring railway theme.

Signalman

Call attention! A single bell.

Return the signal, you know it well.

Four single beats, once and again,

Is line clear for express passenger train?

Check all the instruments, safety first,

Send four back in a single burst.

Set up the route, the levers crash,

Then lock the points, see the cables flash.

When the line is safe for the train

To come into your section on the up main.

Pull off the signals, distant and home,

There they will stay 'til the train has gone.

|Meanwhile, send one bell to the forward box,

Carefully checking your instrument blocks.

The train is approaching as you receive a bell back,

So you send him four beats, you must never slack.

He accepts your train as it passes you by

With a wave and a whistle, you watch and sigh.

Then send Train out of Section to the box in rear.

Without this the next train is going nowhere.

Put your signals to danger, you know the rules,

They are accepted as safety tools.

This is a snapshot for people to see

How running a railway once used to be.

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Here's another one - this time from my dad. Remember it katyjay?

 

Keiler's jam, Keiler's jam,

How we all love Keiler's jam,

There's plum, pineapple and apricot,

All put in a two-pound pot.

When I'm asleep I dream that I am,

Having the fits, having the shits,

Through eating Keiler's jam.

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