Jogging On (Two-Finger Exercise)

Two fingers to the lot of you.
You looking for a fight?
Two fingers to the lot of you.
I bring my kid up right.

He stands up on his own two feet
and argues with his teachers.
He knows I’ll always back him up
by threatening those preachers.

I let him play on X Box
with the really violent games
and if the coppers come around
I help him call them names.

My grandfather fought two world wars
so I could have the right
to lie here on the sofa
whilst my kid runs wild at night.

Two fingers to the lot of you.
My kid is not a yob.
I have no brain but you can see
I have a lethal gob.

My kid is a survivor
and I’ve taught him all the tricks.
He’s swearing like a trooper
even though he’s only six.

My legacy will live through him
when you are all long gone.
Two fingers to the lot of you.
Why don’t you just “jog on”?


Beach Ed Wail

Eddie Spade loved sandcastles. He built them all the time.
He entered competitions whilst young, and in his prime.
He cruised the beach-art circuit, Skegness to St Malo.
He revelled in a contest. He always had a go.

He won rosettes and trophies, had accolades galore.
In sand-based architecture, his skills were to the fore.
But then as he grew older, he started slowing down.
He was no longer happy, and sculpted with a frown.

He noticed as he shoveled, his joints were giving pain.
His work was less than perfect and it went against the grain.
Although he kept on trying, his labours were less fecund,
and though his standards were still high he hated coming second.

At last, one day at Brighton, he muttered “what’s the use”,
set off towards the sunset and lived as a recluse.
They missed him on the circuit. His “Venus” was superb.
His “Sleeping Dragon’s” body formed a really lifelike curve.

No one could match his “Triton” or his “Elephants at Bay”.
And nobody could understand just why he’d gone away.
And so they tried to find him, and pulled out all the stops.
They looked for him on Facebook and put notices in shops.
But this was all to no avail, he’d simply disappeared.
Lost and gone forever, at least that’s what they feared.

Until that day in Cleethorpes. The mightiest of tussles,
was scheduled to be taking place (organized through Brussels),
against our continental friends, the Germans, French and Spanish,
but because of a catastrophe, our hopes just seemed to vanish.

Our plucky star performer, a Whitby lad called Shaun,
just couldn’t go, he’d been laid low. He ate a “dodgy prawn”.
The gun went off to start the dig, the foreign types got going,
but suddenly there came a cry, a hubbub that was growing.

A ragged man had quietly appeared upon the beach.
“It’s Ed” They cried. “Our hero, Ed, he has returned to teach…
‘em all how sculpting should be done and save our reputation”.
Though he was twenty minutes late they gave him an ovation.

The French worked on a giant snail, the Germans on an Audi.
The Spaniards simply cheated with imported sand from Saudi.
Their chap was in the lead with an enormous sand paella,
which really was remarkable for such a little feller.

But Ed worked like a Trojan, and soon there could be seen
a mighty towering statue of her Majesty the Queen.
But suddenly a vicious squall caused widespread perturbation.
The others fled but Ed stood firm and worked on his creation.

He knew he had to finish it to win within the rules.
“On, on “he cried above the din, “flee, flee, you gutless fools”!
“Leave it Ed!” spectators cried, “don’t be a King Canute,
The waves are high, look at the sky, the sea can be a brute”.

Their words were lost upon the gale and fearless Ed worked on.
The giant snail, the Audi, the paella, all were gone.
At last he placed the final touch – a crab shell on the crown.
But, roaring in, a giant wave just knocked the whole thing down.

And Ed was gone, this time for good. He had not been afraid.
His mates, bereft, found what was left. A crab shell and his spade.
They kept these precious artifacts, exhibited with pride,
for Ed, who for his country’s sake, committed suseaside.