Moses
gave all his attention,
As Gilly drew lines in
the sand,
“Go here and go there,
but always take care,
To arrive not too soon
in t’new land.”
“Just walk round in
circles a bit like,
‘Till you see on your
left a great height,
Now just take your time,
you’ll ‘ave a mountain
to climb,
I think forty years
abart right”
“Forty years walking
round, that’a a life
time,”
Cried Moses with heart
felt lament,
“That’s daft, we can
build, we have
specialist craft,
Loads of sand we just
need some cement.
Debating and shouting
and ranting and panting,
The two seemed to work
out a plan,
Gilly showed snap shots
of seaviews and veg
plots,
A Tesco’s with shelves
full of spam.
He pictured a land full
of marmite,
Of trifle, pink custard
and wine,
Baked beans, marmalade,
Yorkshire puddin’
home-made,
Mashed ‘taties and
gravy; ‘A sign!’
So at last there was a
conclusion,
Although Moses turned
down shelves of spam,
And asked instead for a
large feather bed,
And summat to make
sarnies from lamb.
So this and a bit more
was decided,
And who could blame the
old chap,
A place with a sea-view,
date palms and a flush
loo,
Some socks and a new
Sunday hat.
As they worked together
a speech formed,
With paper and ink
running out,
The last page they wrote
was on Moses' coat,
But finally gone was the
doubt.
And Moses was now quite
determined,
He needed some time for
to think,
No more stick from the
Fareo, to live like a
scarecrow,
But where would he find
some more ink?
Both Gilly and Moses
were shattered,
Then a shout from the
band loud and clear,
Joined by trumpet and
string, and things that
go ping,
And “Eh, Gilly, it’s
your turn for t’beer.
So the visionary band
re-assembled,
And floating off (we
think) down the beck,
Ducking heads wringing
hands as most of the
band,
Missed the bridge but
not Gilly’s neck.
His pride and his harp
hit the water,
As the band carried on
round the bend,
Harpless and soaked, he
coughed and he choked,
‘Where’s mi Harp, it
were only on lend?’
To this day the very
position,
Of said Harp is a real
mystery,
Some say it’s in t’beck,
some say, “Is it heck,
But in’t’Mill dam 'neath
over’ang tree.”
‘An ‘appen that’s why
folk in Cowling,
To the mocking of those
not so sharp,
Brave the wet and the
cold, in search of the
gold,
By moonlight for Gilly’s
lost harp.
To the sound of the
instruments’ gurgle,
Moses once more tried to
sleep,
But the picture he saw,
was an army real sore,
And a Fareo who’s anger
was steep.
He set his alarm for
five-thirty,
And once more attempted
to sleep,
He tried counting goats,
cows, camels and boats,
And wished now he’d
bought extra sheep.
So right after breakfast
Old Moses,
Set to and tidied his
tent,
He washed up the dishes,
and vacc’d for his
missus,
And set off with head
slightly bent.
He’d gather his people
around him,
To explained as how last
night he’d seen,
A vision from Gilly, an’
tho’ it sounds silly,
It’s better than what
there had been. |
