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Seniority

You’ve still two full years or more,
till I clock up sixty four,
I'm Robin Hood and in me bloomin’ prime!
I be feeling somethin' sore,
you seem not to know the score,
so I’ll spell it out for you, - an’ all in rhyme!

If you’d push to pinch me place,
rush into the ol’ rat race,
take a lesson, chum, just don’t you try it on!
or I’ll smash yer effing face,
there’ll be arsenic and old lace,
every bloody bone I’ll break or shake upon!

Push your luck and apples, pears,
you'll trip, hung by Barnet Fairs
short an' curly, hurly-burly in a wink,
cobblers' awls hauled, you'll get shares
of raspbry tart for mine's not theirs',
time for you, me lad, to start to learn to think!

Tea leaves grate, my china plate,
down drains missin' links of late,
bottle and stopper won't disover oo's to blame,
Chevy Chase dead beat a state
none would greet at any rate,
keep yer 'ands awf, no excuses limp an' lame.

Jackdaw sore an' shaken core
you'll soon learn what lies in store
if my mince pies grab your jewellery around,
if your pork pies any more
get my goat you'll 'ear me roar -
there's no chocolate fudge oo'd budge or fine a pound.

If a whopper you would tell,
aught thats fishy ‘as its smell,
so if e’er yer tries to take me for a ride,
not the slightest ‘ope in ‘ell,
for I’m sound as any bell,
if yer wants to save yer skin, mate, stand aside!

Whistle and flute won't make me mute,
and my twist and twirl is cute,
while your trouble and strife has left you in the lurch,
took 'er Bristol City beaut
toodaloo to play the flute
for some merchant banker in 'is City perch.

Step aside or ‘ware me skill
as I step in for the kill,
I don’t like it if yer tries to cook me goose!
I’ve me wits about me still,
an’ its taken passing ill -
so scram, ‘op it! or the ‘ounds of ‘ell will loose!

poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
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