Posted 12 April 2012 - 07:23 AM
Bertie Batt by Rob Barratt
This is the tale of Bertie Batt
A bolshy boisterous little brat
Who teased the dogs and shaved the cat
Naughty, naughty Bertie Batt
Bertie Batt one day went bonkers
In his search for decent conkers
He climbed a tree and found some stonkers
But down fell Bertie Batt, (kerplonkers!)
Bertie Batt got bored one day
In the six weeks holiday
He found a can of insect spray
He took it and went out to play
He sprayed the ants, he sprayed the bees
He thought it was a spiffing wheeze
He sprayed the wasps, he sprayed the fleas
He sprayed his next-door-neighbour’s knees
Bertie Batt had no real mates
Just a gang of reprobates
Who hung around and learnt to hate
Scared OAP’s who stayed out late
Bertie Batt did not like school
Yes sir, no sir, three bags full
He bullied kids, broke every rule
He piddled in the swimming pool.
Not picked for the academy
He was in the bottom set, you see?
It was special needs for Bertie B
The truth was Bertie felt alone
His best friend was his mobile ‘phone
His mom and dad took mephadrone
And home was never really home
How many Batts? How many Berties?
Who cares if his shirt he dirties?
But Bertie Batt knows where the hurt is
His hurting head is where the hurt is
His hurting heart is where the hurt is
That’s how it is for little Berties
Posted 12 April 2012 - 11:12 AM
Posted 12 April 2012 - 04:13 PM
But then it would have to conclude with some kind of moral story - not with the more adult reflective ending that you have.
Or is that along the lines of Timothy Winters?
Posted 13 April 2012 - 04:14 AM
'Timothy Winters'by Charles Causley (1917 - 2003)
Timothy Winters comes to school
With eyes as wide as a football-pool,
Ears like bombs and teeth like splinters:
A blitz of a boy is Timothy Winters.
His belly is white, his neck is dark,
And his hair is an exclamation-mark.
His clothes are enough to scare a crow
And through his britches the blue winds blow.
When teacher talks he won't hear a word
And he shoots down dead the arithmetic-bird,
He licks the pattern off his plate
And he's not even heard of the Welfare State.
Timothy Winters has bloody feet
And he lives in a house on Suez Street,
He sleeps in a sack on the kithen floor
And they say there aren't boys like him anymore.
Old Man Winters likes his beer
And his missus ran off with a bombardier,
Grandma sits in the grate with a gin
And Timothy's dosed with an aspirin.
The welfare Worker lies awake
But the law's as tricky as a ten-foot snake,
So Timothy Winters drinks his cup
And slowly goes on growing up.
At Morning Prayers the Master helves
for children less fortunate than ourselves,
And the loudest response in the room is when
Timothy Winters roars "Amen!"
So come one angel, come on ten
Timothy Winters says "Amen
Amen amen amen amen."
Timothy Winters, Lord. Amen
Charles Causley Charles Causley (1917-2003) was born and brought up in Launceston, Cornwall and lived there for most of his life. When he was only seven his father died from wounds sustained during the First World War. This early loss and his own experience of service in the Second World War affected Causley deeply. His work fell outside the main poetic trends of the 20th century, drawing instead on native sources of inspiration: folk songs, hymns, and above all, ballads. His poetry was recognised by the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry in 1967 and a Cholmondeley Award in 1971. In addition to these public honours, the clarity and formality of his poetry has won Causley a popular readership, making him, in the words of Ted Hughes, one of the "best loved and most needed" poets of the last fifty years.
Posted 13 April 2012 - 05:58 AM
Yeah, I think we can all recall a "Timothy Winters".
My kids knew one a few years ago, his name was Ben. I never knew a kid so grateful to be given a bowl of two minute noodles for lunch.