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Burnt sausage

harry hayes

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This poem is quite true and local.  The scene was by Orford park main gates on the paving about 30 yards towards the farm (Tasker's),  Hopefully it contains some social history plus a bit of cruel humour.




My dad was a war-time 'brickie',

Good old days as people say;

The 1940 winter was really cold,

And bad weather meant no pay.


Most still picked from a 'pool' on site,

The unlucky ones sent away;

Dole money was quite derisory,

Try again another day.


Wide open to the elements,

Elevenses from an old tin can;

All they had was a tiny brazier,

Plus a blackened frying pan.


Jake was the aged, tiny cook,

His bacon sandwiches kept up strength;

Unfortunately he had a problem -

A dew-drop of frightening length.


Down it would go to the bacon,

Would gravity make it part?

A large sniff - voila- back up again,

Then another one would start.


Occasionally he lacked concentration,

Slight explosion as liquid hit the fat;

But in those days no health and safety,

To worry over things like that.


His last job was to douse the fire,

When it became too dark to see;

His method was quite unconventional,

But near Perfect - capital pee;


Sadly, there's no happy ending;

Jake made a 'fuel'of himself;

Concentration once more went astray -

Hence the title on display.



Thank you for reading.  Happy days

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Brilliant as usual Harry but the 'dew drop' part made me feel a little queezy to day the least.  YEUCH :oops:  :lol:


As for the 'burnt sausage'..... oooooh  .... I don't think I will be able to look at, let alone eat, another sausage again without thinking about that :shock:   

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