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Back in my Gloucestershire childhood,
the one thing that gave me a scare
was the two-headed lamb which stood
at the top of my granny’s stair.
It was in a plate-glass cabinet,
topped off by a castor-oil plant,
buffed like a dowager’s lorgnette
by my ancient four-armed aunt.
I gave it to the dustbin man,
but though it was totally sick,
my six-eyed uncle loved that lamb,
and granny’s eight legs were too quick.
So it stood in its usual place
with its dead eyes and its dandruff
and every time I hid my face
twelve fingers just weren’t enough.
.
'Passport to Pimlico'(1949)
Drinking until you fell flat on your face,
getting through sixty untipped fags a day,
stuffing yourself with bacon rolls and buns
regardless of what the doctor might say,
let alone the wife, whose appointed place
was to get your washing and ironing done,
cook a decent dinner and clear away.
You can see it might have been a lot of fun.
No washing-up or hanging the clothes out,
hoovering or mopping the kitchen floor,
talking to the kids or cooking the grub,
all that New Man stuff would be out the door.
No poncy foreplay or fiddling about,
a brisk embrace and then straight to the nub,
taking thirty-five seconds and no more,
then get your drawers on and down the pub.
Of course there were some serious downsides,
work, lawn-mowing, creosoting the shed,
an adherence to ancient traditions
which made experiment pretty well dead
so life experience was less than wide,
no art or culture or erudition,
no decent shampoo, and a limited
repertoire of sexual positions.
Personal hygiene was largely absent,
only tramps would have beards like that today,
and there’s no shortage of things to condemn,
like attitudes to women or being gay:
sometimes those chaps were rather unpleasant.
But they were taken prisoner by their time
like us, and finally one can only say
we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them.
'I'm All Right Jack' (1959)
