Upon My Way To Scotland Yard

When summer days were dry and sunny,
A farmer lad, for pocket money,
Came into town to cut the grass
For city folk of higher class
Who did not care to push their mowers
But spent spare time in boats as rowers.

Now when the boy became a man,
He built a daydream and a plan,
And since more fit for storytime
I’ll put it into words that rhyme.

Upon My Way To Scotland Yard

Upon my way to Scotland Yard,
I met a statue of the Bard
I doffed my hat in deep respect
And fondness for his intellect.

I sat there on my Cub Cadet
The steed that’s never failed me yet.
And pondered all his plays I’ve read
While sipping coffee, toasting bread,
On trains and buses or on a sled.
On chairs and sofas or in my bed,
In the shower, in the shed,
Or even standing on my head.
But I must wend my busy way
And praise the Bard another day.

Upon my way to Scotland Yard,
I met a shaggy St. Bernard;
His coat was brown, his eyes were gray,
And he wagged his tail a friendly way.
While he had rescue in his eye,
My thought was: my throat was dry.
He wore a cask upon his collar,
I filled my flask and left a dollar.
I left a dollar with his pard,
And hurried on toward Scotland Yard.

I sped up my Cub Cadet
The steed that’s never ailed me yet,
For rain drops posed a sudden threat,
And I did not want to get all wet,
Nor emit some angry epithet,
For rain would surely cause delay
And likely spoil my work-a-day.
But luckily ‘twas just a sprinkling,
And all was dry within a twinkling.

Upon my way to Scotland Yard,
A lady in a leotard
Came bounding out a cottage door
To make the street a dancing floor.
Her hair was black, her eyes were green-
As comely a lass as may be seen.
She tumbled like an acrobat
And proved as nimble as a cat.
A dozen hand-springs in a row,
Down the street I watched her go.
But near a crevasse in the street
She most abruptly found a seat.
For something happened as she tumbled,
She tripped or flipped or slipped or stumbled.
Her knee gave out and down she sat,
With a nasty bump, kersplat!
She sat kersplat, and that was that.

When I arrived at Scotland Yard,
I came against a surly guard.
His feet were large, his beard was red,
With a people derby on his head.

You must show a special card
To enter into Scotland Yard;
A card for all within to see,
And one that’s counter-signed by me.

“I, I said, must have a card
To enter into Scotland Yard?
I surely did not know it
I’m but a simple subject here
I’m but a lowly poet.”

I understand your low degree
And that your just a poet.
It’s none-the-less the queen’s decree,
And even you should know it.

I sat there on my Cub Cadet
The steed that’s never failed me yet
And knew it was a certain bet,
We’d find a simple answer yet.

“If you’d call up the queen and say:
There’s come to Scotland Yard today
A self-admitted poet;
Who has no card for Scotland Yard,
Or simply cannot show it.
I think you’ll find she will not mind
Nor order you to stow it.
Because, old friend, I’m sure you’ll find
She’s hired me to mow it.


Read More on Poetry
Volume 2, Issue 2, Posted 10:59 AM, 01.10.2010