Mr Chips

 

Mr Chips

 

 

Catchphrase, ITV – a sweaty, smirking, Roy Walker,

thieving pairs of donkey’s hind-legs -

Poor legless bastards, bemused, sit up and beg –

‘Can you say what you see? What it is yet?’

Here’s Mr Chips, hiding behind a celebrity square,

doing something suspect, all hands - you’d swear

on tribes of honest injun’s tripping the Can Can –

it shouldn’t happen to a vet, let alone a man.

All this is apropros of nothing, random beliefs

like when you’d not bothered brushing your teeth,

there’s a smell sweet - tuna fish, is it? Good grief.

Now, there was this dog, probably shaggy, his tail

wagging as you entered Archie’s pub, a talker?

Not much of one, but he had a hot trick or two

under his collar, he’d go on the nick, like they do,

partial to a bag of cheese and onion. Now, the boxes,

well, they were on the floor, with holes your socks

would be proud of, cut out - he could get his snout

in there quicker than your liminal zone could shout,

‘Crisps!’ Which we all did. Frequently. ‘Crisps!’

And he’s off and at them, bagged him a packet,

settles it between his front paws, then, snags it

with his canny teeth and he’s having his portion.

Bad breath? Wouldn’t get close, if you’re asking.

Poor Archie, at his wits end, he’s multi-tasking,

begging us, ‘Fellahs, don’t say ‘Crisps’!’

So, of course, we did it more, so did the labrador,

its belly getting so big, it’s scrubbing the floor,

which had to help, right? Until, one day, dog’s dead.

I stopped going after that, don’t know why -

well, I do - but I found new pubs, invited in, ‘Drink!’

they’d say, ‘Drink!’ You’re by toilets, under sinks

black holes getting blacker until there was only black.

‘Say what you see.’ Not much, actually, looking back,

made my considered choice, revealed a square,

exposed Roy Walker and Mr Chips crowing there.