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short funny rhyming poem - Rebel Spirit

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Published on Feb 27, 2011

Great grandaddy's mobility scooter mishaps

Rebel Spirit

It was only in his ninetieth year
that great grandfather lost his fear
of what his dear mama might say,
If he should ever go astray.

It was time to be a rebel.
Down with whist! And down with scrabble!
He needed something to his liking,
thought he'd take up motorbiking.

He bought himself a suit of leather
'Great,' they said, 'for any weather.'
Bought an old helmet from a mate,
thought to himself, I look real great!

Black clad, he took the bus to town,
brows furrowed in ferocious frown.
'Oh, yes', he thought; 'I've got the lot',
but there was one thing he'd forgot.

A motorbike! He slapped his head,
and hobbled to the shop and said
'I want the biggest and the best.'
'Of course, sir! Have you passed your test?'

'Damn and blast, young whippersnapper!
'Sell me a bike, or I'll whack yer!'
But such threats failed to daunt the lad;
'I'll tell you what I'll do, granddad.

I do have something that might suit ya.
Why not try this lovely scooter?
Its good and cheap and painted black,
with skull and crossbones on the back.

It's got four wheels, so you can't fall.
It's got a great top speed and all,
-eight miles per hour, but, they warn us,
never lean too far on corners.'

He gazed at it and fell in love.
and helped the lad give it a shove
through the door into the alley,
paid in cash, and off he sallied.


Then began his reign of terror,
he'd scoot round Tesco, all in leather
and everyone who was not quick
was prodded with his walking stick.

He lived to race between the aisles
and leave black skid marks on the tiles,
jumping the queues and living fast.
We knew, of course, it couldn't last.

He thought he was beyond the law!
The manager first cursed, then swore,
'One day, my rebellious friend,
you will come to a sticky end.'

And, thus, he laid a trap, did Matt,
(his name - I failed to mention that.)
A cup of cooking oil was poured,
as round the aisles the scooter roared.

And Matt's staff raised a barricade,
closed every escape route and laid
in wait for poor great granddaddy
who, visor down, just could not see

the tragedy that lay ahead.
Towards the beer and wine he sped.
On hitting oil, his brakes quite failed -
a skid, a crash and off he sailed,

through bottles, jars and cans of Spam
and ended in a pool of jam.
Body broken, spirit lingered
long enough to raise two fingers.

And they do say, at dead of night,
the shelf stackers turn pale with fright,
in Tesco, still his favourite haunt
as he rides out on ghostly jaunt.

© Wilkie Martin 2011
http://www.wilkiemartin.com

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