(after Horace, Epode XVII, Iam iam efficaces)

‘Right, I’m at your mercy Sheila, I give in.
For hell’s sake, you must stop it; enough’s enough.
It feels like you’re tearing me limb from limb.
Scratch my name out of your little black book;
I don’t want my whole world crashing round my ears.
Please Sheila, leave it, stop bearing these grudges
If I could wind the clock back, I would; honestly!

You feel as if I stuck the knife in; OK, let’s meet;
possibly I could stitch things up between us.
You’re forever hectoring me.
Why do you go on dragging my name through the mud?
I’m trying to offer you the hand of friendship here;
I’m appealing to your better nature; can you not forgive me,
or at least go out for a meal for old times sake?
Good God Sheila, not even Prince Street Aggie
threw her Billy to the wolves.
Despite his Chapel Street Bike,
they’re getting on again; happy as pigs in shit.

Darling of the Maison and the last waltz
don’t you reckon you’ve punished me enough?
We’re not kids any more, either of us;
look at me; I have found a grey hair,
thanks to you and your bloody threats to make me pay.
Every waking hour of every day
I can still hear you, promising to get the last laugh.

So I give in; I take back everything I’ve ever said.
You warned me that you’d make me sorry and you have.
My head’s ringing with your talk of my faults.
What more do you want? You’ve totally broken me.
I feel as if I’m burning up;
as though something’s eating away at me.
I’m hotter than Lanzarote Beach in August.
In fact, I’m wondering if you’ve spiked my drinks;
whether that’s what’s making me feel so blown away all the time.
I haven’t a clue where all this is going to end,
maybe I’m heading towards a nervous breakdown.
You could at least give me the chance to put things right;
let me explain; surely you owe me that -
you, who are so perfect and have never dumped anyone -
you, who would help punish your own cousin to save a friend.

You were furious when I believed what Kenny said,
but that doesn’t mean you should take it out on me.
You’re blinded by anger and I can’t sleep for worrying
about what you might do next; and I’m losing weight.
The upset’s driving me mad; you didn’t really bring shame
on yourself or any member of you family.
I truly believe you’re whiter than white -
and that there’s a much softer side to you!
That bairn in the pram was yours not Mrs. Swallwell’s,
I see that now; he’s the image of you.
It’s just that you never looked fat enough to be pregnant.’

‘Save your breath; I’m not listening.
Your pleas are falling on deaf ears, I’m afraid, Dave.
I’ll teach you for calling my friends and me.
What’s wrong with a bit of skinny-dipping?
a few midnight orgies veiled by the dark?
You know-all! Shielding your holier-than-thou bloody self!
All of Thornaby is laughing at me.
I hope you don’t think you’re getting away with that!
You’re too late – I’m putting the poison in,
but it won’t be quick; I’ll feed it drip by slow drip
until you wish for all your life you’d kept quiet.
You’re going to regret the day you ever crossed me, pet!

Just think about this, Dave; I’m going to tantalise you.
You’re going to see me every day; I’ll make sure of that.
What’s more, I’m going to watch while you drown in your own guilt.
You made me, and all my friends a laughing stock.
We let you in and you ridiculed us.
You will be the rolling stone that gathers no moss.
Pretty soon Dave, you’re going to wish that you were dead.
You’ll think about taking an overdose,
or climbing the balustrade of Victoria Bridge
with you mam’s best washing line tied around your neck.
When I see you crumble like the Clevo Flour Mill,
only then will I have got my own back on you.

You’ve seen what I can do, love – when I put my mind to it.
You’ve seen me, and my little coterie of friends.
You’ve watched how we work together,
how we bring a big boy to his knees.
And now you’ve seen just how much of a headache I can be.
Do you honestly think I’ll let you off this lightly?’

Notes: (1) The Maison-de-Danse was a dance hall in nearby Stockton
(2) The Cleveland Flour Mills (known as Clevo Flour Mill), used to stand
on the banks of the River Tees and was demolished in 1970.

(after Horace, Epode XVI, Altera iam teritur)

Here we are again, ground down by a suicidal war,
watching while Britain cracks under its own greatness.
What the French failed to crush at Waterloo,
nor even the Romans conquered forever,
nor James and the Scots at Flodden, nor the fireworks
of Cromwell, nor the ambivalent Italians,
nor Aryan promises of sharing power,
nor Viking, nor Saxon, though carried in our blood,
this country; all of us, have come to reap the fruits of Labour,
have destroyed ourselves to be Right.
Crisis will follow crisis, we’ll quarrel over a barrel.
The East has risen; the sun has set on our Empire;
yet still we have war-mongerers hiding behind the Bushes
with bulldog determination.

Some of you might be wondering what we can do,
how we can stop the inevitable.

There’s only one thing to be done,
follow Wedgwood Benn’s advice,
stop honouring war as if it were a god,
talk to the wolves at the door,
let’s go where negotiation takes us,
where the words of elders are written in the sand.
Unless you have any better ideas;
let’s get to it while there’s time on our side.

And we should not stop listening until there are sharks
raising their heads in the English Channel.
Nor should we turn aggressor until Cumbria grows palms,
and bananas are harvested in Wales,
until Hyde Park trees are heaving with coconuts,
till Paisley and Adams sit together,
until America stops seeing red
and we’re not first to jump into their bed;
till there is absolutely no left choice open to us,
till we see weapons of mass destruction.

Let’s make our voices heard and threaten with the ballot box.
If there’s any more talk of war, let every one of us
with a modicum of intelligence do that. Weak people
will get the government they deserve.
But you, who have some fight left in you; don’t give up,
don’t throw up your hands and sigh or waste your vote.
There is an opportunity waiting for us,
let’s try to compromise and find a lasting peace,
so we don’t always have to watch our backs,
be tagged, numbered, scanned, finger-printed, filed.
We must nurture our people on understanding
so that they choose the olive branch over the gun.
This is the kind of land we should be handing on;
a place where education sprouts free as grass,
where opportunities for all grow on trees
and choices are there for the harvesting.
Once we have discovered how to be even-handed
we can let our guard down again.

If only we’d courage to do this, we wouldn’t believe our eyes.
There’d be no threats from suicide bombers.
Lakenheath could have the long-term vision of a small, peaceful Suffolk village.
Feltwell could give up its deep-space tracking.
We’d no longer be seen as a target
by those in pursuit of a dirty war.
We could rub out our Sixties image as ‘unsinkable aircraft carrier’.
To give up Cruise Missiles,
be ready for peace in one hour;
that would be the really Smart move.
Our island set apart and free of bases; we would be riders of the waves;
see no glory in ruling them
by conquest, bullying or being first to strike.
The righteous can escape by listening to their poets.

Notes: Before the war with Iraq, his Holiness Pope John Paul implored the leaders of all nations, to have a long-term vision and search for peace.

(after Horace, Epode XV, Nox erat et caelo)

When I think of our first doorstep fumblings
on that moonlit Burton night;
why did you promise your undying love
if you didn’t mean it? Why say I was the one?
You swore down that you’d love me forever
and not let anything come between us.
We’re made for one another, you said,
ignore all the baying women in the Top House,
it’s their jealousy whipping up a storm,
don’t believe a word, they’re just stirring it.

But Billy, I’m a woman and sure as hell, you’ll pay for this.
Your ‘little lamb’, your Agnes, has had enough,
she will not stand meekly by while you have a fling,
she’ll give you a taste of your own medicine.
If it’s good enough for you, then it’s good enough for Aggie,
she can be tough when she makes up her mind.

And you lady, you might have won this time round;
go on, laugh while you can.
Keep your purse shut so he stands your Guinness and gin
and pushes the boat out for you.
It’s clear you see yourself as some sort of second Greta Garbo.
You’re a good-looking woman, I grant you,
but he’ll dump you just like he always does.
Last laugh to me!

Notes:
(1) The Commercial Hotel was referred to locally as ‘The Top House’
(2) The Burton was a public house

(after Horace Epode XIV, Mollis inertia)

Beats me; I seem to be as soft as muck lately;
some bloody union man who can’t win a rise!
I try, but you don’t help, with your nagging;
telling me how they’ve nothing to spend in your shop.

I must be in love, Mrs. L.
You’d know about that; but guess who I’m stuck on?
bloody Chapel Street tart!

Despite trying to give her the elbow
I can’t get her off my mind;
reading my Aggie’s slushy love books – Me!
of all people.
No wonder I can’t concentrate on upping their wages;
too busy writing soppy notes.
Never quite saw myself as a soft-arsed poet.
She’s made me lose the plot completely.

(after Horace, Epode XIII, Horrida tempestas)

Listen up now lads, there’s a storm brewing,
the rain clouds are gathering over our heads as I speak,
rumours are rife, the bosses are in little huddles,
nothing for it but to get another round in
and try to drown our sorrows while we can still afford it.
Short time’s on the cards, it’s up to God and Providence
to get us out of this mess, so drink up.
Come on then, who’ll give us a tune on the old Joanna,
help to cheer us all up a bit?
I know he’s a Job’s Comforter, but according to Martin,
apprenticeships don’t count, we’re about to be fed to the lions;
now’s the time we’ll be wishing we’d stuck in at school
and got some decent qualifications for ourselves;
everyone here is listed for severance,
our weak spot is not having the right bits of paper,
we’re virtually unemployable by anyone else.
Cheers lads, tilt your glasses, it numbs the pain.

(after Horace, Epode XII, Quid tibi vis)

”What the hell do you want? Get back round to your own end.
I don’t know why you’re here standing me pints,
I have nothing for you; I’m no Rockaby donkey.
Just take a look at yourself; you’re past it.
You, with your peroxide hair and your cheap bloody scent;
go on; go and pester the big fellas.”

Honestly, the state of that tart; she gets worse;
old man won’t stand up for my Aggie now,
so he won’t do for her.
She’s always plastered with make-up;
but she’ll need a lot more than Ponds to fill the cracks in her face;
leaving her greasy stains all over the pillows,
then moaning on at me later because I complain.

”You’d no problems getting it up for her in Princess Street;
three-times-a-night-man you were with that slut by all accounts;
I can’t even get a one-off knee-trembler from you now.
Bugger old Florrie; that madam sold me a right pup in you!
And to think, I could have had Harry Chambers.
Now his John Thomas was a sight for sore eyes,
it was up every morning before he was!
Why do you think I make all this effort to look nice;
take the trouble to get my hair shampooed and set;
wear my tightest skirt, my frilly blouse, seamed stockings?
It’s for you, so your pals know I love you.
To hear you, you’d think I was going to eat you alive.
I’m miserable since you stopped our hot afternoons”.

(Notes: 1. The Rockaby was a public house
2. Ponds was a popular face cream in the 1950’s)

(after Horace, Epode XI, Petti, nihil me)

It’s not as much fun as it used to be
shouting after the lasses in the street, Granny Mary,
but it’s what we do; lads like me,
it’s what every lad from around here has always done.
Three years since she turned me down and I still fret.
Nearly everybody in Thornaby knew how I felt.
I made a right fool of myself, Gran, didn’t I;
following her everywhere, hoping she’d smile?
I was like a lost puppy.
I felt so stupid. Is that what love’s like?

I used to moan and groan to you
when you sat me down on the opposite side of the fender,
stretched out your mottly legs and gave me tea,
made sure I was warm by the fire; do you remember?
I promised to try and forget all about her,
when you told me there were plenty more fish in the sea,
but I knew she was better than me,
because she was cleverer; she’d passed the scholarship.

I only pretended not to care, to shut you up.
When you sent me home, I used to stand outside her front door,
but no matter how long I stood, she never came.
Sometimes I stood there for hours on end.

I’m back in with the gang again,
because I can depend on them. Girls tease and mix my head up.
Yes, I’m definitely off romance,
and nothing will change my mind, Gran,
unless a really special girl comes along;
or I could knock about with that new lad from Britannia Street.

(after Horace – Epode X, Mala Soluta Navis)

She must have appeared from nowhere one Halloween,
she couldn’t have been born like us.

We should string Elsie’s skipping rope across her back-yard gate,
cover the snek with mud,
so when she comes to shout at us, she’ll trip
and break her leg, with a bit of luck,
or we could tie a long string to the handle of her door,
then hide round the corner and pull on it.
Sunday afternoon, everyone’s in bed,
nobody will see us.
If we all pull really hard and fast on the string,
we’ll drive her round the bend.
She deserves it for all of her shouting,
and for stopping us playing donkey.

We’ll have to get our story straight,
’cos when she works it out
she’ll go round winging to all of our mothers,
and swearing down she knows that it was us.
She’ll shout and bawl and threaten to call the police,
she’ll bend their ears,

Even if our mams tell her to leave us alone,
we’ll be for it,
we’ll end up doing her messages for a week,
her stinking messages all week.

(after Horace Epode IX, Quando repostum)

When are people going to appreciate what Winston’s done,
give toasts and stop moaning about rations?
Will you join me Mrs L.? What’s your favourite tipple,
best sweet sherry is it?
You’ll play won’t you; tinkle the ivories,
but none of that slushy Mantovani stuff?
It’s not all that long ago we gave Mussolini our bit of Jubaland
and then what the hell does he do?
Goes off and snuggles up with Germany
and has the cheek to stand against us!

We could all have been into Nazi tart by now;
Adolf’s Braun, instead of our brawn.
We’d have ended up doing poncey exercises
out in the fresh air.
We’d not be sitting in here that’s for sure -
drinking a pint of Newcastle.

I tell you, if it hadn’t been for old Winnie we’d all be drinking vino,
and tucking into spaghetti,
and wearing black shirts, and kissing both cheeks;
either that or sporting German jackboots.
Rule Britannia – we’ll take anybody on eh?
The bulldog won’t lie down.
Rule Britannia – three cheers for Kitchener and Gallipoli
and those who died in the first lot -
as Lloyd George said, we squeezed the lemon ‘til the pips squeaked,
then thanks to Winnie, we’ve done it all again,

by fighting them on the beaches
in the fields, the streets and the hills.
They just had to go with their tails between their legs
when the Americans joined in.
They say that Adolf shot his bloody self in a bunker;
couldn’t surrender in person!

Come on, drink up Mrs. L.
don’t listen to Billy’s whining;
you’d think we lost to hear him talk.
We should celebrate the peace we died for.
Come on, let’s have a hair of the dog.

(after Horace, Epode VIII, Rogare longo)

Do you really have no idea, you silly tart,
why I don’t fancy you?
With your big tombstone teeth and your man’s voice,
and furrows in your forehead so deep,
I could plant leeks; and your hands stinking of trotters.
Your arse is like a house-end
and your jugs are all but down to your knees;
honestly, I’ve seen neater cows.
The last time I saw legs like yours,
they were dangling from a nest.

Never you mind though – God bless you, Aggie.
I’ll see that you get a damn good send off,
one that you would have been very proud of,
decked in your Sunday best.

But tell me pet, what’s with all this reading
by the fire at night?
Book-learning does nothing in my trouser region;
in fact, it’s a proper turn-off.
So, if it’s action you want, there’s nothing for it
but to take me in hand again.

(after Horace, Epode VII, Quo, quo, scelesti ruitis?)

Well, I tell you what, Neville Chamberlain was right.
What was the point, we were at peace?
There were enough of our lads killed in the first bloody lot,
(my own dad included),
without any of us having to risk our necks.
And what have we got out of it?
I’ll tell you what we’ve got, bloody rationing, that’s what!
A job for life my arse!
We’re being starved by our own Government,
still, what can we expect now Winston’s back?
Bet the Germans are laughing their caps off at us.
Even wild dogs protect their own;
but not us British – we do for ourselves -
the little man counts for nowt here.

Don’t know why you all look so shocked,
you know it’s true.

Come on tell me, what’s Churchill done for you?
four of you here have lost younger brothers.
Someone needs to knock the bloody Bulldog’s teeth out
before our kids end up in the same mess.

(After Horace, Epode VI – Quid Immerentis Hospites)

Why does he pick on her, he knows she won’t fight back?
Not so big now is he?
Let him have a go at me; set his lip up,
he’ll get as much as he gives
and I’m not scared of your big mouth either;
others might be; not me.
I’ll roll up my sleeves to anyone; you try it.
I don’t care who you think you are.
Your lot always have a go at the quiet ones,
but I reckon your bark’s worse than your bite.
Well watch it, ‘cos I’ve got your card marked now
and I’m just ready for a fight.
I’d like to remind you how I dealt with the ‘Close’ woman,
I made mincemeat out of her if you remember,
so don’t think your reputation scares me one little bit.
And we’re not leaving ‘till he says ‘sorry’.

(after Horace, Epode V, At, o deorum)

‘Oh God let me go! Please let me go
it wasn’t me, honest.
Whatever it is, it can’t be me you want
so just you get off me right now.
I swear on my mother’s life and on my brother’s,
that I never laid a finger on your precious pal.
In fact, I swear on the new school blazer I got last week,
and on our cat’s life and on the Bible.
Don’t stare at me with those beady eyes, our Sheila,
like you were a mad dog.’

Kenny was getting hysterical
in Sheila’s iron grip.
Over and over he begged his older cousin
to let him go.
But Sheila was having none of it; she had the bit
between her teeth.
Maureen was her best friend. Kenny would have to squirm;
a thump would be too good for him.
This little episode was every cousin’s dream come true,
something to blackmail him with for ages,
something to tell Auntie Nellie later
if he didn’t share his candies,
or better still, hand over every one,
in honour of the girls’ sweet friendship.

But Maureen was circling the two of them,
sprinkling encouragement over Sheila’s resolve.
She looked like some wild half-breed bitch,
or like a snapping terrier.

Without a second thought, little Anne scooped mud
in fistfuls from the common,
threatening to cover him head to foot
and leave him out to dry,
said she’d check on him morning, noon and night,
so he’d better just lie
and take his medicine like a man
while the Trafalgar Street girls
met in Maureen’s yard and decided what to do with him.
His pissing trick could not go unpunished.
Excited they dangled a Bounty before him
not letting him have even the smallest taste.

And Barbara was there from Britannia Street,
she knew all about lads,
well that’s what everyone in Trafalgar Street said,
and below the railway.
Barbara could twist any boy around her little finger
then make him look stupid.

Sheila now, her teeth thoroughly on edge
and chewing at her nails,
what did she have to say? What didn’t she?
‘Anne, Maureen, Barbara, friends forever,
hell’s fire, and you, Mary, of the crackling coal when
the flames throw boy-shadows on your wall,
come from your Prince Street scullery and cast a spell
on my dirty little cousin Kenny,
while curled up on your fender the black cats
rest and stretch and sharpen their claws,
let The Rocket lasses bawl and the lads make fun
of the one who dumped me,
he still has the smell of my Coty -
he’s definitely a sight for sore eyes.
But hang on, it’s no good rubbing him with trotters,
dad said it didn’t work
when Aggie smeared Billy’s neck in The Commercial
to scare his fancy-woman,
instead, she bragged it was the smell of love -
hung onto Billy ‘til he lost his job.
I won’t give up, I’ll root out all I know of our Kenny,
tell his secrets.
It’s his fault Dave and me broke up; he told him I was thick,
no girl will have him by the time we’re done.
I might not be able to get Dave back again
now that he’s in the tight clutches of Patricia,
but Dave, I’ll tell you this, I’ll get the last laugh yet,
not by changing my perfume or lipstick -
that won’t get you back. No, you’ll come to your senses,
you’ll be more frightened of me than your gang,
because I know all your little weaknesses; which bits of you don’t measure up,
I can tempt you with that:
and I’m sure, rather than risk your laddish reputation,
you would turn your world upside down,
ask me out again, tell me you love me,
as Patricia’s eyes turn to green’

Now Kenny stopped his pathetic pleading
with the wild girls,
although he didn’t have a clue what to say,
he blurted out his empty threats:
’You can torture me all you like, two wrongs don’t make a right;
what you lot do, won’t change Dave’s mind.
I won’t forget what you’ve done in a hurry; you’ll regret this;
I can’t forgive you.
Yes I’ll promise not to bully again,
but I’ll haunt you; hide round corners next time.
The threat of my piss will stick in your minds;
long-distance attacks are what we lads are good at.
Soon we will be joining forces,
so let’s see if that turns you on.
We’ll get you in the streets, the alleys, the common
and when our call-up papers come
we’ll go abroad; maybe we’ll have to fight for real;
maybe that will satisfy you.
But think; who’ll date you if we don’t come back?
Our parents will live through that.

Notes:
1 The Rocket and The Commercial were public houses
2 Coty was a brand of perfume popular with working-class
girls in the 1950’s)

(after Horace, Epode IV, Lupis et agnis)

What makes her think that she’s better than me?
We’ve more in common that she thinks,
with her rough hands and wrinkled flesh
and hard skin on her knees.
She wraps herself in Marks & Spencer’s best,
but her tongue has no hiding place.
Has she no idea, as she makes her way to Church
with her wide feathered hat,
that everybody stares at her
because they don’t like her?
She had the broken nails of a cleaner
until she hired a domestic.
She owns her own property and a little car
and trundles up and down Trafalgar Street,
waving from the passenger seat,
acting as if she were a magistrate -
as if she owned the place.
When she’s around
why have we to be on best behaviour?
Is this jumped-up nobody the best we can do?

(after Horace, Epode III, Parentis olim)

I’ve just heard of the best curse for those who don’t respect
their dads, or give them cheek,
let them eat pigs’ trotters, they taste like poison.
Foundry-men must have strong guts
because if I eat them they make me heave.
I tell you, these trotters
covered in dripping, should be in a cauldron,
or else thrown to the dogs.

You remember that night when the two-till-tens knocked off,
and Aggie, an eye on her Billy,
met him in the snug, gave him a pigs-trotter hug,
made him stink from head to foot,
then as she left to turn their bed down, caressed his shoulders,
clasped her hands round the back of Billy’s neck?
The whole of that snug smelled to high heaven,
and poor Billy with it.
You smell like Stockton Abattoir, Bill lad,
was what all his mates said.

Now Anne, if you get any ideas about my bloke,
don’t be surprised if the next day,
when you go to get your best dress from the wardrobe,
it smells like the essence of pig.

(after Horace, Epode II, Beatus ille)

“ It’s a lucky man who can follow
his dad into the works,
tread in his footsteps, use his know-how
and not get into debt.
Why would you need an education
or little bits of paper?
You won’t be buying and selling shares
or knocking at Number Ten.

No, you’ll be hammering at white-hot ingots
welding them to each other
dirtying your hands; doing something useful
making the sparks fly,
or you’ll shovel the crackling, curled filings
to decorate fences,
or store them for another blast,
or sweep them into heaps.

When the final buzzer of the week sounds,
anointed with your sweat,
you’ll clasp your pay packet; the fruit of your graft,
rip the top off and pocket the small change.
You will be king of the bar, ruler of the snug.
In The Burton, or in The Commercial,
your homage to the bitter god will know no bounds.

You’ll love leaning your elbows on the smooth, hard wood;
resting hob-nails on the kick-rail,
watching while pumps keep the amber liquid flowing
and cares start drowning in the foam
and worries pop like bubbles on your lips
and every swallow means a deeper sleep.

When the low siren of Monday’s six-till-two
calls workers back again,
with a billy-can hanging from your side,
you’ll march off towards the furnace,
or run, so you won’t be quarter-houred;
earning every halfpenny.
You’ll pull your oily cap down over your eyes
and clock on – save your pay.
In the middle of such manly pleasures,
you’ll forget your problem love life.

But if you find a nice girl, get married
have a couple of kids, settle down,
someone like your Mam to look after you,
a lass who’s not afraid of hard work,
she’ll put a nice little home together,
have your meals ready on the table,
there’ll always be a clean starched shirt for you
and the cupboard will be full
There’ll be a bottle of brown ale waiting,
maybe a little rabbit pie.

I’ll tell you this, if I had going what you’ve got,
I wouldn’t bother with the fancy food
even if it was handed to me on a plate,
offered completely free of charge.
Nothing complicated, exotic or foreign flavoured
would pass across my lips,
or taste as fine as good old fish and chips
from Tubby Turnbull’s chippy
or twopenny ducks from Metcalfe’s butcher’s shop
or thickened, home-made chicken broth, pearled with barley
or pigeon freshly trapped and wrapped in brown paper
or ham bones from Bob Bartley’s.
What a fabulous spread all that would be for me.
How good to see your children thrive,
your wives, up to their elbows in the flour bowl
counting out the fadgies
while little ones buzz round them
waiting for ‘tasters’ straight from the oven.”

When landlords said all this to Trafalgar Street men,
pretending, trying always to be one of them,
they’d call in all their dues; the arrears,
and on the first of the following month put the rents up.

(after Horace, Epode I, Ibis Liburnis)

Shopkeeper, posh in pearls you ride in plush, hired charas
among your customers, poor as church mice.
Armed with a quip for the driver, you take the mike,
give your instructions.

What would we do without you? we’d not leave the street.
You take over, and you make us forget
the cheaper cuts of meat; the rent we haven’t paid;
(when we’ve saved enough to cover our separate days),
then we go along with your suggestions
to learn about the world.

We head out. Across Victoria Bridge
and the inescapable railway line.
To the crumbling cliffs of Scarborough’s furthest bay;
without a care, we follow you.

You wonder why somebody as reserved as us
should want to join you on your trip
Truth is, we’re better being taken for a ride,
because if we stay at home we’ll worry
that tongues will wag and jibe
or gossip about who we think we are.
They can’t whisper if we’re with them!

So yes, we’ll gladly join you on the coach
to fill the empty space.
Don’t load any extra brown ale
just for us,
although we’ll probably be ready for a drink
by the time we hit the moor road into Whitby.
We don’t want to impose on you; we’ll bring our own.
We won’t make pigs of ourselves.

Your ingenuity has given us enough -
We won’t take the experience
and bury it at the back of our minds
or treat it like just another day.