A Third Class of Robber

 

A Third Class of Robber

 

Amongst other things,

such as monogrammed serviette rings

that might’ve been silver

and all that’s better to wipe you with, dear,

although he more properly might have used napkin

because such things

can say a lot about a fellow, you know –

there was a pottery mug for drinking.

 

Coffee, probably.

 

I know what you’re thinking,

but this was a fascinating piece,

worth a bob or two at least

if it could even be retrieved from the 70s

where, no doubt, it lies in smithereens.

 

Bits of glazed white tessellated stuff that gleams

cracked up and hidden

at the bottom of your undisturbed midden.

 

Depicting, as it once did, a scene

that remains seared onto the anterior neocortex

these many long years and I expect

you’re familiar with it, have seen the design,

of a train in four units, three classes,

a robber, a businessman, some rich ass

being locomoted by an avuncular Casey Jones –

mustachioed in brown derby up there, alone,

and there’s chains - chains binding coaches

and each passenger oblivious

if any other makes moves or encroaches

and that robber, well he’s looking unconcerned,

taking no prisoners, slash and burn,

armed with a vicious looking jemmy,

he’s heading home with a pretty penny,

you’d think - gruesome 

sheltered under his umbrella.

 

Now, that mug was the subject of much debate

around the breakfast table

which never much hinged on the fate

of our first-class passenger,

but, instead, focused on the idea

of why a third class at all.

 

Now, this might be just a fancy

but part of me remembers a trip to Hornsea Pottery,

to purchase the very same.

 

Somewhere way up, beyond a sooty Humber,

from Bawtry, tracking North

to a part finished M18

which ends about the same place that it begins,

therefore, his right hand down and left wheel,

navigating with hands of steel

across the pince-nez, ashen East Riding fields

and here’s the North Sea -

that very place where Vikings sacked and pillaged,

running amok through this English village.

 

Now probably to do us all a favour

we were sent forth from the shop, the factory floor -

we might have rubbed noses on the glass door,

but, you know – kids, crockery

mix and light the blue touch paper and shoot

and they’re inside,

raiding shelves for porcelain loot,

though, in truth, nothing was lifted but a mug.

 

Maybe, I stared out to sea –

I certainly would now – seen many waves grind shores,

many a bandit, many a robber,

and even though I mug my class – vote Labour.