Best Baccy Poems
Beneath this table sits a box
It’s scruffy, thin and battered.
A cardboard box of memories
Of days that really mattered.
Confetti from my wedding day
A drawing by my mother
The shoes that took my son to school.
A photo of my brother
A tattered book of rhyming verse
My dad’s infatuation.
A silken flower, grandma’s ball
A golden celebration.
A pipe my granddad carved with love
A boyhood skill he cherished.
His baccy tin is scratched and bare
Its precious contents perished.
A tarnished ring with stones of paste.
My sister’s finest treasure
A suitor's gift, now black with age
Of value without measure.
This box hold moments lost in time
We add things when we’re able
A memory from everyone
Who’s sat around this table.
Each time my Auntie Rosa went to shop in the High Street,
She’d bring us back a pink-iced bun; it was our special treat.
We’d take them up to Grandad’s (we preferred to eat them there)
We’d scoff them in the kitchen, in his big old Windsor chair.
And Grandad made us thick black tea, as thick as tarmacadam,
And carrots from the garden (if the rabbits hadn’t had ‘em!)
He tried, I guess, but honestly, his cooking was quite ropey,
And since he washed his plates in Daz, it always tasted soapy!
He kept rabbits out behind his house (some of them were tame.)
In the front grew antirrhinums – ‘bunny-rabbits’ once again.
Their soft and furry noses looked exactly like each other:
Each flower a tiny replica of its herbivorous brother.
His house was full of assegais, elephants and gongs.
He’d tell us of his voyages and sing us salty songs …
He always wore a waistcoat and a greasy old flat cap.
He still walked with a sailor’s roll, the nautical old chap!
When Grandad wanted 'baccy, I’d go down Kit-Cat Lane
To the musty shop in a wooden hut - ‘The Cabin’ was its name.
T’was just like in a cowboy film, with barrels and all-sorts;
But best of all was the real stuffed bear, moulting on the porch..
Sometimes we’d go to Gordon’s house. His garden had a swing.
We’d crawl under his veranda, and discuss Lee’s brother’s Thing!
Gordon did love swimming! He went in the sea each day.
He went in once too often, for he drowned out in the bay.
Those summers on the island seem so very long ago.
These days I can’t remember why it is I loved them so …
But sometimes, when a nasty pong comes drifting from a drain,
It smells just like the Canvey dykes, and I am there again …
I’m padding down a sandy path, between two slime-filled ditches,
My hair is wet, my skin tastes salt, my swimsuit rubs and itches.
I turn the corner of the lane; the graveyard smell is gone …
In Grandad’s garden, there’s my Dad! He’s come to take me home!
For the uninitiated (or simply younger!), an assegai is an African Zulu warrior's long spear,
and tarmacadam is the stuff you put on roads - blacktop!
Harry (written by Steven Cooke)
He stairs through the window
In wheelchair he knows,
Gabriel is just a pause behind him.
His last duty, to open a door in his mind
Of memories torn from 1917, where he left,
Jack Fred and Bert, Pals forever.
A moment singled out from a thousand days of torment
Bully Beef, Baccy and sweet tea in the Morning.
A pair of socks from a loved one,
And friendship forged in the baptism of War.
These were his treasures, His only relief
Then the guns of Britannia, manufacturing widows by the gross, as
Gas and Shell screamed for their quota of today’s carcass.
For a moment Harry felt sadness for his foe
Then it was gone
No time,
Heart Beating, Breath quickening, Stomach in Knots,
Fear held in check to avoid the Officer’s gun,
No time left, Stay Close Jack, Fred glanced,
While Bert squeezed a locket around his neck
A quick nod, The Soldiers farewell
Then the whistle, Gabriel’s Horn, over the top
His refuge abandoned, for the embrace of the fog,
It masked the land, as if to avoid offending God
Slowly creeping its vale of death,
Gun in hand they walked into the grey.
Fodder for the Machine gun, No defense, we fall.
Once more our lads are summoned into oblivion.
There blood sanitizing the soil with England’s youth
Like a red carpet, for their comrades to walk the next day.
Then the retreat, back to his rat infested trench
Gods reward he thought,
Then Role call, Silence for Jack, Silence for Fred, and Silence for Bert
Harry felt shame in answering, for a second; he too wanted to embrace silence with
his pals.
But Soldiers must go on, as do the righteous
And England expects
For I fight for a Heavenly cause, so I’m told,
Though I do not know what that is
All I know is fear
Although this impostor, I can live with
You see my friends are gone;
My humanity is lost
And my soul awaits its next trial
Is it a blessing that I am alive or,
Just a delay,
For death stalks me, waiting for his reward.
My sanity saved only by the sweet tea and a ***,
Dry socks, and a letter or two from home.
No time for sentiment, the whistle,
Memories, memories.
Oh, there you are Gabriel welcome.
Hello lads where you been.
OFFICE BOY
the class
of summer fifty five
left to ply
their business lives
the office partners just two
pens pencils nearly-new
clerking the lowest
of the low
daily drudgery
reality soon shone thru'
down the cellar
my steps did wend
scuttle filled fires to tend
the 'old man ' yelling
'ere lad chop chop
get me baccy
from t'corner shop
Splidgy splodgy, squishy and squashy
Time to find Dad’s old mackintoshy
Time to jump in the puddles so deep
To splishy and splashy, and cover his feet
In glorious slime and silt from the stream
Making chocolatey coately mud pies with cream
When he was seven, what fun the boys had
When he was eleven splidgy splodging with dad
What joy for a boy and his father to be
Splidging and splodging, through forest and lea
Then to go home and sit by the fire
Drying their clothes with the flames rising higher
Grandpa went fishing, even though it would rain
He wished he was fishing with Grandpa again
Down by the millstream the puddles were huge
The water came over and covered his shoes
Grandpa said jump from the top of the hill
From the bridge near the crossing beside the old mill
It was so high he was a bird in full flight
Just watch where you jump boy, and you’ll be all right
The words of his grandpa are with him today
Though when grandpa died he had nothing to say
Dad coughed and gurgled the day he went down
Now he’s dressed in his best ‘neath puddley ground
Dad’s mackintoshy still hangs in the hall
Smells of bulls eyes and baccy, like when he was small
Grandpa and Dad are with him today
As into the mud bank he goes out to play
Splidgy splodgy, squishy and squashy
Safe from the rain in Dad’s old mackintoshy
Time to jump in the puddles so deep
To splishy and splashy, and cover his feet
In glorious slime and silt from the stream
Making chocolatey coately mud pies with cream
There was an old stripper called Jacky,
who's act was deemed rather tacky.
But she got her comeuppance
when, out of her tuppence,
fell six pipes, fifty fags and some baccy.
She had a face like a fish fryer's basket,
All stressed and creased and lined
His like a bag of old spanners
Abused, misused, misaligned.
She jumped his place in the bar queue
One Boozy Saturday Night
Instead of taking the Hump
He loved her at first sight.
Two aging hippies
Who’d never ever bricked it
And when they met each other
Felt they’d really clicked it
They consummated their relationship
In the yard outside the bar
And once or twice more
On the back seat of his car.
They came down to earth together
Laughing at life’s little joke
Then he pulled out his baccy pouch
And rolled them both a toke.
Two ageing hippies who
Quickly grabbed the chance
To waltz their way together
Through life’s oncertain dance
They became a couple
Saw each other more and more
And when they looked at each other
It was only beauty that each saw,
With her face like a fish fryer’s basket
All stressed and creased and lined,
His like a bag of old spanners
Abused, misused, misaligned
I raked in my baccy pouch
to find the makings of a toke
and pretty soon I was riding
that sweet magic smoke
stretching like a giant
a million miles high
switching off stars
in the night sky
riding a dragon
full of joy and desire
every emotion blazing
like a raging raging fire
but all too soon of course
came that moment when
my magic smoke dropped me
back into the real world again
where my sleeping bag
was far too thin and old
the concrete was hard and
that shop doorway too cold
Peanut butter sarnies
Wacky baccy smoke
Hysterical laughter
At an unfunny joke
Colours so intense
Brighter than I've ever seen
Sound reverbing through me
Clearer than it's ever been
Passing the material of her
Skirt through my fingers
A softly caressing sensation
That soothes and lingers
It seems I'll never tire
Just can't get too much
Of the texture of the cloth
Electric to my touch
Passing that toke
Between us to and fro
Each inhalation
Very deep and slow
Her head on my shoulder
Arm around my waist
Dreamy sort of time
Nothing done in haste.
It's seem I am floating
Drifting towards the sky
Immersing in the depths
Of this technicolor high
Senses enhanced until
Sliding slowly to the norm
Visions disappear as in time
The world reassures its form
the class
of summer fifty five
left to ply
their business lives
the office partners just two
pens pencils nearly-new
clerking the lowest
of the low
daily drudgery
reality soon shone thru'
down the cellar
my steps did wend
scuttle filled fires to tend
the 'old man ' yelling
'ere lad chop chop
get me baccy
from t'corner shop
wait-on
tea-break brews'
in a stew
bellow the back-office crew
one more task
to get done
for the partner's son
another errand no time to chat
he'd forgotten the fish
for his wife's cat
then
the switchboard clicked
the doorbell chimed
skills to learn juggle prioritise
which to choose to attend
mail in the tray
still to send
whew!
nearly five knock-off time
in view
just one task still to do
fetch the 'boss's evening news
was this really
the career to choose
He wanted to be a Toreador
He’d bought a suit of light
He practised with his mother’s cape
Nearly every single working night
He could perform The Veronica
With a certain style and grace
Always maintaining the required
Look of haught there on his face
He felt close to perfection
Felt he’d reached his peak
just needed to face a first bull
Within the next few week
From his base in Macclesfield
That place he held dear as home
Prospect he knew were limited
Just knew he’d have to roa.]
He hitched down the motorway
Ended up at the docks in Hull
Found an economy cabin on
A ferry that wasn’t very full
He ended up in Europort
And did he feel a fool
Wished he’d learned his geography
Back home in school
Holland was another country
Full of new and different sights
But sadly he soon realised
They didn’t stage bull fights
He found a job in Amsterdam
In a place maybe just a little tacky
But to his delight he found
It stocked lots of wacky baccy
He has a new life there now
One of relative bliss and ease
Just himself and his new girl
To consider and to please
Bulls are all safe now I think
He spends each and every night
Wrapped there in his lady’s arms
Both giggling high as kites
The moral of this story is
He now leads a life so rich and full
If he’d learned his geography right
He’d have ended up fighting bulls
I REMEMBER (1)
Candles & nightlights
flickering bright
blackout curtains
shutting out light
Dripping setting
from Sunday's roast
spread thick
on Monday's toast
Paper chains
cut and glued
beer in glass
bottles brewed
Christmas puddings
with threepenny bits
Meccano kits
made to fit
Sunday school outings
upto Coombe hill
my first ever train ride
so quite a thrill
Summer walks
to the Bugle Horn
crisps & lemonade
upon their lawn
A weekly soak
..in a round tin bath
towelling off
by a fire in the hearth
I REMEMBER (2)
afterschool
on a
tuesday
my treat
awaiting on gran's
baking tray
a spicy aroma
filled
the air
t'was
freshly baked-
my
weekly share
bread pudding
piping hot
drizzled with honey
moreish&
yummy
a moist mouth
watering
confection
in
a
sultana delectation
I REMEMBER (3)
my clerking
ever on the go
the junior
lowest
of the low
the office
with partners just two
pens pencils
nearly-new
daily drudgery
reality soon shone thru'
the 'old man ' yelling
'ere lad
chop chop
get me baccy
from t'corner shop
tea-break brews'
in a stew
bellows of hurry-hurry
from the back-office crew
another task
to get done
this time
for the partner's son
no time to stop &chat
he'd forgotten the fish
for his wife's cat
the switchboard clicked
the doorbell chimed
&
skills to learn
juggle & prioritise
whew!
nearly half five
& knock-off time
just one task
still to do
fetch the 'boss's
evening news
was this really
the career to choose?
Pipe tobacco is cheaper than hand rolling tobacco, that’s good
But you gotta chip it an chop it and tug out all of the twigs and dead wood
Cos it’s as rough and as course as a grizzly bears bum
But thats part of the fun
Then you gotta roll it into a long slim snout
Shucks, it don’t roll easy I tell you and the big bits of baccy at the end fall out
Then when you strike a light it erupts into a massive fire and turns into ash
An it burns your tache
Worth it though for a cheap *** you know
Now sit back and have a slow blow
Roll your own smoke with cheaper than chips coursely chopped up cheap pipe bacco
I know you want to yunno
The telephone’s shrill ringing
Jerked me from my sleep
To hear the voice break
Heard him start to weep.
I knew just how hard
That he’d been trying
To hold back the pain,
To stop himself from crying.
Broken and shattered
At just twenty four
He just couldn’t take it,
Had had enough of War.
Back at the Regiment,
In a state of despair,
He took the Waccy Baccy
Walk across the Drill Square
Not realising the consequences
Out in the world at large,
A mentally disturbed civvie
With a Dishonourable Discharge.
We found him early one morning
A combat hardened Veteran
Waiting there in ambush
Looking out for some Taliban.
The Veterans Brotherhood
Quickly took him in hand
For in all truth who were
More likely to understand
Than those who’ve been there,
Those who’ve talked the talk
And, each in their own way,
Have at least Walked the walk
Now he’s back in touch
Knows he’s not alone,
Knows at least there’s a voice
On the other end of the phone,
Knows a fellow veteran
Will always be there,
Knows they’ll try to understand,
And, non judgementally, they’ll care.
Caverns, caves, and mystery
Along the Cornish coast
Pungent smell of misery
Did I see smugglers ghost?
Black Jack guarded his domain
Cutlass drawn and fighting stance
Willing to inflict bloody pain, guarding
Brandy wine from far off France.
The barrels roll in on stormy ocean
Heaved on shoulders, stashed in cave
Like zombies working, no emotion
Dead they lie in unmarked grave.
Excise-men men have been sighted
Black Jack urges, language profane
It seems the night has been blighted
Signal lit, all aflame.
Pandemonium breaking out
One by one roughly chained
Excise men enjoyed a rout
Victory is now proclaimed.
Ah! but wait, where is Black Jack?
He's paddling like crazy out to sea
The Hawk is waiting for its captain
He's down but not out, wait and see.
Image
by
Matyze
Pixabay
I thought you might like to read this small piece written by
Rudyard Kipling
1865-1936
"The Smugglers Song"
If you wake at midnight and hear a horse’s feet
Don't go drawing back the blinds, or looking in the street
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie
Watch the wall my darling when the gentlemen go by.
Chorus:
Five and twenty ponies trotting through the dark
Brandy for the parson, baccy for the clerk
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy
And watch the wall my darling, while the gentlemen go by.