Way down the Holloway Road we ride,

Allie and me and all of us,

And the butchers chop and lop with pride,

And the turkeys squat with their stuffing inside

By ropes of sausages soon to be fried,

And every door is open wide

As down the road we growl or glide

And Christ… mas is coming!

All at the front of the top of the bus,

Far down the Holloway Road we roar,

Allie and me and all of us,

And tellies are tinselled in every store,

With fairy lights over every door,

With glitter and crêpe inside, what’s more,

And everyone seeming to say, ‘For sure,

Christmas is coming as never before.’

Yes, Christ… mas is coming!

The Moody Messenger

His walkie-talkie sneezes

And coughs as he goes by,

And something short and horrible

He spits out in reply.

He’s a cross between a cowboy

And a moody astronaut,

Scowling from his fish bowl

(He’s not the smiling sort).

He’s among the meanest movers

Down any city street,

With a 1000-c.c. dragon

Snarling at hands and feet.

With a roar of rage he throttles.

The rubber grips and bites

And nearly knocks your knees off

When lunging from the lights.

He slouches into offices

And slams the package down.

Can you think of anything

To make him smile, not frown?

City Rain

After the storm

all night before

the world looked like

an upturned mop

wrung out into streets

half-dirty, half-clean,

tasting of rain

in bedraggled trees

and smelling of dog

with its shaky fur

and cold

lick.

Snarl

When Dave Dirt left the dentist,

He thought he’d better stop

And check out what the man had done.

He chose a darkened shop

He thought was shut for dinner.

He snarled in at the pane

To see his teeth reflected there

And then he snarled again.

But suddenly he noticed,

As he forced his lips out wide,

A cobbler staring at him who

Was mending shoes inside.

The cobbler looked quite horrified.

Dave looked as though he’d eat him.

He turned and ran off down the street.

Dave didn’t want to meet him!

Applause

I gave my cat a six-minute standing ovation

For services rendered: hunting of very small game,

Pouncing about and sitting in cardboard boxes,

Three-legged washing and never knowing his name,

The jump on the knee, the nuzzle at night, the kneading

Of dough with his paws, the punch at the candle flame,

The yowling for food, the looking at everything otherwise,

Staring through it straight with a faraway aim.

I gave my cat a six-minute standing ovation.

Your cat’s like that? I think you should do the same.

Dialogue between My Cat Bridget and Me

K: Can’t you see

I’m trying to write?

Why jump on my knee?

And why alight

With muddy paws

On verse brand-new?

There should be laws

Against cats like you.

B: Can’t you see