Synaesthesia Magazine Green - Page 28

There was a time, another age,

if we turn back that dog eared page;

When boys wore boots and rolled down socks,

and girls had sandals, bows and frocks;

Our „Poofs‟ held up gran‟s swollen feet,

and kids could play out in the street.

With scabby knees and dirty chops,

and clay bunged Tizer from the shops;

Whole days around the bomb sites spent,

„fore venture playgrounds were invent;

Commando knives with rubber blades,

lime mortar lumps our Mills grenades.

Where „mortar‟ blasts got in your eye,

and stinging nettles made you cry;

On corrugated iron sleds,

we scoured our shins and lumped our heads;

We stood on nails in bits of wood,

wore duffle coats by just the hood.

Old water cisterns pirate ships,

stocked up with buns and sherbet dips;

We passed around the ginger pop,

when only cissies wiped the top;

And impetigo, nits and fleas,

ran stowaways on our high seas.


And those when „parkies‟ thicked your lugs,

hot home made custard came in jugs;

Cold winter lino froze your feet,

and bobbies all still walked their beat;

When every pantry had a mouse,

and doctors still came to your house.


Sticks 'n Stones