Country Life

As a boy, now ten, fast approaching eleven,
To be living where we did, to me was heaven.
We lived on the edge of Ipswich's perimeter.
Everything was nearby for us, yes sir!

Most days off school us boys would rush,
Into the territory of the singing thrush.
We would build our dens, all hidden well;
Cowboys and Indians, whoop and yell!

We would make spears, crude bows and arrows.
Shooting at and always missing little sparrows.
One place we lads had never tried scrump in,
Where during the war was RAF pilots stumping.

Surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence,
To try at that would have been very dense.
Now the pilots had long since left and gone,
The desire to do it, in us lingered on.

The place had a massive gate,
We volunteered our smallest mate.
They slung him over, a sight to see!
He landed in a very large apple tree!

Throwing over apples for us to retrieve,
The gate swung open, we could not believe!
One man, one horse, but we saved the day,
We all ran, each a different way!

By this time it was getting dark.
Sod! This game, for a children's lark.
Most made for the heath, which nearby, of course,
Easier to hide from him and his white horse.

We all managed to slip him, though riding.
But were late home; all got a good hiding.
We crossed that old barracks off our places,
Good thing it was too dark to know our faces!

Dad took me, him riding a big trade bike,
To fetch some stuff the pigeons like.
He knew the place, a dried up river bed,
I just did as I was told, whatever he said!

"You bring the small shovel, there's a lad!"
I soon saw where the stuff was to be had.
Red in river bank, told it was shale,
We'd fill up a sack or a small pail.

Birds have no teeth, I knew that to be.
They have a gizzard, workings explained to me.
It's essential to keep the pigeons well,
It gives the hens eggs a good shell!