Flitt & Folio's Family Favourites
By Peppy Scott and David Smith
()
About this ebook
A collection of (mostly) humorous verse for and about family and other curious creatures...
Pam Flitt and Ivor Folio are award-winning performance poets from the Kent and Sussex borders, where they also occasionally appear under their real names, Peppy Scott and David Smith. Their poems, songs and skits have been featured on BBC radio and online in various forms, including animation. Peppy and David are the creative team behind 2Fs Design and two-thirds of The Gluten-free Trio. They host regular open mics showcasing spoken word, original song and comedy, these "Voices" events featuring regularly in local festivals and entertainments.
Family Favourites offers over 100 pages of their most popular poems covering aspects of family life and the frustrations and joys those ties can bring. Illustrated throughout with original drawings by "Peppy", who is the resident cartoonist for The Times of Tunbridge Wells.
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Book preview
Flitt & Folio's Family Favourites - Peppy Scott
ON MOTHERHOOD
Birthing blood. Primal pain.
I’m never doing that again!
For you alone I paid that price,
Made the selfless sacrifice.
The start of you. The end of me,
My liberty, identity,
My body battered to become
That more important thing – your mum.
Mother’s milk to start you right,
I pureed every veg in sight,
Weeping as my nipples cracked,
I persevered. That was our pact –
The best for you at any cost,
My will and independence lost,
Enslaved devotion day on day,
It’s unconditional, they say.
Out with bars and cinema.
In with cot and nursing bra,
Sucked into a deep black hole
Of sleepless nights in my new role.
I packed away my pretty things,
Flattering frocks and earrings.
I put down Proust and Jo Nesbo.
Instead I read The Gruffalo.
No longer being wined and dined
(Forgotten life I’d left behind)
I signed up for the PTA –
Had seven years to rue that day...
I bore all your spoilt, whining friends,
And (worse!) their mums. It never ends –
Birthday parties, school sports days,
Endured, immersed in a Merlot haze.
Of course, I don’t need to explain,
You’re worth the blood, the tears, the pain.
You’re worth it all, my precious child,
My one pure love. I’m reconciled
To giving all you need of me.
It was my wish that you should be,
And I’m repaid in full, it’s true,
Each time that I embarrass you.
GRANDDAD’S THINGUMMYJIG
My granddad made a thingummyjig,
he built it in his shed,
he didn’t draw a blueprint
he just kept it in his head.
He only ever made the one
and then he dropped down dead.
He left it in his will to me
to care for in his stead...
There’s a bobbin on the nerdling spring
that bounces up and down
when the grundle on the spocklerod
is spinning round and round,
there’s a baffle on the terdstick
where it strikes against the ground,
and a damper on the hamstring
so it hardly makes a sound.
There’s a giblet on the wobblestack
to lubricate the spleen,
and once a year at Christmas
it’ll flash from red to green,
but just one drop of oil
or a blob of Vaseline
will prime it for another year
and keep its dumper clean.
The wiffler’s automatic
with a grumble-gusset grip
that fixes on the chuffer
with a double-whammy clip
the grunion rings are puckled
so they never, ever slip
and they’re double surge-protected
with a sparrabolic trip.
There’s a clapper on the boilerplate
that rings a little bell
to vent the gobble-grommet
when the bladder starts to swell,
the steam that leaves the spigot
has a lovely fruity smell -
we don’t know how it does it
but it does it very well!
My granddad made a thingummyjig,
the only one there’ll be,
I’d love to share it with the world
but fear they’d never see
the wonder and the beauty
of the gift he left to me,
so I keep it safely in my shed
and hide the only key.
LITTLE GIRL IN A RED DRESS
She set aside the dolls and sweets,
Discarded piles of tinselled treats;
Instead, clutched in her dimpled hands,
A simple pack of pink hair bands.
Teasing strands of first-growth hair
To punky spikes, yet soft and fair,
Bound in bunches, wild but neat
As slender sheaves of summer wheat:
A tufted little oddity
Of infant eccentricity,
Concerted creativity,
Determined in her destiny.
Absorbed all day and never bored
While grown-ups ate and drank and snored,
In their midst yet set apart,
Buzzing round her new-found art:
A parcel of calm industry,
Self-contained activity,
Focused firm but dreamily,
Contented little busy bee.
Swathed in swishing velvet, red,
Majestic as her gold-crowned head,
A quaintness in old-fashioned looks
Like princesses in story books:
A picture of life’s happiness
Wrapped up in a party dress.
Innocence of childhoods past,
Future memories forged to last,
Present perfect, fleetingly,
A gift in perpetuity.
MR HUMOURVERSE
I dreamed the other night I was a Marvel™ super-hero;
my name was ‘Mr Humourverse’