By Exile


PomĖpom, pom-pom, goes the tune,

Three pints of Ďheavyí, half a crown,

Window up, trousers doon,

Bare yer backside tae the moon,


Thatís the practice of which heís fond,

Baring his buttocks to the Curling Pond,

While the boys are playing darts,

Heís letting the air around his parts,


Now was it fact or was it fiction,

Was it a habit or a peculiar addiction,

What perverse pleasure did he get,

From baring his arse for all to inspect,


Letís hope at least it brought him pleasure,

This uniquely eccentric form of leisure,

But schoolgirlsí fertile imaginations,

Brought this subject into conversations,


Pom-pomís rear end was discussed,

At the school and on the bus,

Iíve always thought this an imaginary tale,

That really went beyond the pale,


I found him decent, intelligent and jolly,

Not someone guilty of such folly,

As for the truth, Iím not sure,

But itís part of Stanley village folklore

 COPYRIGHT Ė Calluna Publishing 2007