I'm Bessie the Bag Lady, I ain't got no 'ouse or lolly,
And I live rahnd Euston Station wiv me bundles and me trolly,
And me worn-aht bit er blanket and me broken-'eaded brolly,
(And me little drop er you-know-what to keep me feelin' jolly!)
Life wasn't always like this, but me fortunes took a tumble...
And naow me memory's goin' and me fingers often fumble,
And coppers move me on, and porters shaht, but... musn't grumble!
'Cos rahnd the Station's 'ome, and like the song says:Tho' it's humble...
If you wonder wot I do all day, just moochin' rahnd the Station -
Well, you might say I'm makin' up me lack er edication,
Observing', so to speak, an 'ole cross-section er the nation,
'Cos the fings that go on 'ere are reely quite a revelation!
Naow, early mornin' we get all the stock-broker commuters,
All makin' for the City like an 'orde er savage looters,
'Cos tho' they carry briefcases, not knives or swords or shooters,
Their eyes all 'ave the steely glare er pirates and freebooters.
Then w'en the sales are on, we get the wild suburban shoppers,
Pourin' from the train like bottled beer w'en you take out the stoppers,
'Ell-bent on bargains, and their 'and-bags all are sharp-edged w'oppers.
That they use to clear a parf the way that woodsmen use their choppers.
And sometimes (Lord preserve us all!) we suffer a school outin',
Rampagin' fru the station wiv their fightin' and their shoutin',
W'ile the teachers look on, 'elpless, finking wistfully, no doubtin',
Of the good ol' days, w'en you could give such types a proper cloutin'!
There are buskers rahnd the station too - Cor!, they're a proper riddle,
They play guitars, but you might say they're reely on the fiddle,
'Cos tho' they dress in rags, the passin' passengers to diddle,
Their accents all are Hupper-class, or leastways Hupper-middle.
Naow, if you wonder wot I do fer food - that would be tellin',
But there's supermarket sandwidges, gorn past their date for sellin',
And the Curry-'Ouse 'as leftovers, all 'ot and spicy-smellin',
And sometimes the roast-chestnut man 'as runts not worf the shellin'.
There's a prat comes from the Social, full of talk abaht re-'ousing,
And if I knew no better, Cor!, my 'opes 'e might be rousin',
But the forms 'e brings play games wiv yer, like cats w'en they're out mousin'
So naow w'en 'e comes by, I just pretend that I am drowsin'.
But still, I manage some'ow, tho' it's only in a poor way -
Tho I'd lay you odds, Sinatra mate, that my way wasn't your way!
I can't see YOU on a winter night, 'unched in an open doorway,
Wiv the norf wind 'owling dahn on yer, straight out of bleedin' Norway!
But there's a Sally Army lass comes by - 'er name is Susie -
And she makes the Bible seem - yer know - all up-to-date and newsy!
And she says: w'en Jesus was on earf, 'E wasn't a bit choosy,
But 'E welcomed all the dahn-and-outs - thief, beggar, leper, floozy!
So, Mister, w'en yer 'ome ternight, all snug and warm and jolly,
And yer little girl runs up to yer, wiv 'er designer dolly...
Just spare a thought fer poor old Bessie, wiv her broken brolly,
'Oose 'ome's two plastic bags and a nicked supermarket trolly!.
Silver trophy winner
Bronze trophy winner
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
. x debs
<p style='font-size: .8em'>
</p>
</div>
<div class='cleared'> </div>
</li>
<li class='even comment ' id='bb_1083946203' >
<div class='comment_by'>
<img src='/images/ext/User/99/669.jpg?1256696043' /><br />
<span><a href='/dustookie2' onMouseOver=){kind=link}