Blood , Sweat and Paint
roll back the years
to when we couldn't talk
or walk
yes we could poo and pee
with the best of them
make mum and dad throw
a wobbly or go pale with
concern, ah poor lad he's not well,
(dunno where this is going)
and then you get your first toys
and the world is magical,
all roses and glowing
'till big brother
steals your bike
for two seconds
and all hell unfolds,
mum drops plates
and supper all
over the prefab floor
for the non existent dog
while wee willy wojja
want's his bike back...lol
I can remember
being five years old
and watching the workmen
paint the back doors
down the back entry
somehow another lad and wee wojja
found some bournville
coloured paint in a cellar
and huge brushes ( so mum said)
and followed
behind the workmen
by a day or two
and repainted
what they had just finished,
we only did ten or fifteen doors
with big daubs
crosses and stuff
before someone
stopped us in our
Van Gogh mode,
mum and a neighbour
spent days
rubbing out our art work,
start young I say.
Humorous and witty! The narrative flows with true poetic cadence and ease. Simplicity in language and structure work to bring out a tone of immediacy and truth. Thanks for sharing!