B’aint it just , I heard him say,
As I walked a Cotswold Mile
From Toadsmoor up to Chalford, I can still recall his smile,
A Creaking axle starved of oil, it made me turn my head
T’was Charlie Chaplin on a bike ! was I dreaming, was I dead ?
A gold tooth sparkled, as the setting sun, lit cheeks dashed brown with Red.
His gleaming eyes danced in the shade, of the Bowler on his head
Old boots turned pedals slowly, and those handlebars set high
On this vintage ‘Raleigh Roadster,” this was August 65
He hummed a tune that sounded close to Doo Wha Diddy Dum
How I wished I had a camera, as I followed on a run.
He called out to the butcher, stood outside his stone tiled shop
“Dorcas zed ta Thank eeh zir, for last nites Mutton Chop”
The landlord at the “New Red Lion” chuckled at my tale
That would be George Juggins , he lives left of the Stroud canal
The “Duke Of York” up Chalford Hill, was our first real rendezvous
I was singing with my Guitar, when he ambled into view.
The locals gathered ‘round old George and soon he scrounged a beer
A tint of snuff on his moustache, and some got on his ear
He sang a song into the Mike, it was called “The Stuttering Boy’’
George had a natural stutter himself, but he used it like a toy.
He had them in hysterics, some were laughing on the floor,
He told us he’d tried for “Opportunity Knocks,” but we never heard no more.
I met old George a few more times upon my Cotswold Stay,
Those happy golden memories , raise a smile to light my days
Now George and Dorcas are Folklore , do a search on your P.C.
And you can hear those precious tales, Jest like they’d told ta me.
“B’aint it Just”
(c) Copyrighted 2010, by P & B Jenkins
All rights reserved.
