Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher

Subject: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 12 Sep 23 - 05:23 AM

Cyril called these Odd Odes

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 12 Sep 23 - 05:25 AM

Hector Cramp by Cyril Fletcher


This is the tale of Hector Cramp
Who tried to join a nudist camp
Unfortunately he was tough
And if that wasn't bad enough
Bore signs of toughness everywhere
In fact he was a mass of hair.
Hair on his arms, hair on his back
Hair on his legs and hair on his….. er... feet!
In fact there wasn't anywhere
About him that there wasn't hair
And when of clothes he was divested
The head man of the camp suggested
He didn't look a wee bit raw
And looked as well clothed as before
And said, suspicious of a plot,
'We don't know if you're nude or not!'
And called to the head gardener... 'Jim,
'Run the lawn mower over him!'
So on the ground they lay poor Cramp
Although the grass was frightfully damp
And the head gardener, nothing loath
Tried to remove poor Hector's growth.
But Hector's hair was tough as wire
And nearly set the mower on fire.
With friction it became red-hot
And the head man, soon upon the spot said,
'Upon my life,...
we'll have to go and fetch a scythe!'
But when with scythe they did appear
Hector was filled with a terrible fear
And said 'No, no, you never shall
I'm not a harvest festival'.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 12 Sep 23 - 07:54 AM

SONIA SNELL   by Cyril Fletcher



This is the tale of Sonia Snell,
To whom an accident befell.
An accident which may well seem
Embarrassing in the extreme.
It happened, as it does to many,
That Sonia had to spend a penny.
She entered in with modest grace
The properly appointed place
Provided at the railway station,
And there she sat in meditation,
Unfortunately unacquainted
The woodwork had been newly painted
Which made poor Sonia realise
Her inability to rise.
And though she struggled, pulled and yelled
She found that she was firmly held.
She raised her voice in mournful shout
'Please someone come and help me out.'
Her cries for help then quickly brought
A crowd of every kind and sort.
They stood around and feebly sniggered
And all they said was 'I'll be jiggered.'
'Gor blimey' said the ancient porter
'We ought to soak her off with water.'
The Station Master and the staff
Were most perverse and did not laugh
But lugged at Sonia's hands and feet
But could not get her off the seat.
The carpenter arrived at last
And, finding Sonia still stuck fast
Remarked, 'I know what I can do',
And neatly sawed the seat right through.
Sonia arose, only to find
A wooden halo on behind.
An ambulance came down the street
And bore her off, complete with seat
To take the wooden bustled gal
Off quickly to the hospital.
They hurried Sonia off inside
After a short but painful ride
And seizing her by heels and head
Laid her face down on the bed.
The doctors all came on parade
To render her immediate aid.
A surgeon said, 'Upon my word
Could anything be more absurd,
Have any of you, I implore,
Seen anything like this before?'
'Yes' said a student, unashamed,
'Frequently... but never framed.'

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 12 Sep 23 - 08:05 AM

Striptease Sue by Cyril Fletcher


I'll herewith introduce you to
A strip-tease dancer name of Sue
Each night performed upon the halls
Casting off her scanty 'smalls',
She clutched balloon instead of fan
As lightly round the stage she ran
And due to covering quite inferior
Showed portions of her pink exterior
At this the crowd would loudly cheer
(With witty comments from the rear)
Suggesting that they'd like revealed
Those bits and pieces still concealed
But to this show there came one night
A schoolboy, name of Freddie White
On looking round he spotted soon
The front of Sue behind balloon
An evil gleam grew in his eye
As with a soft and thankful sigh
Prepared to use with action drastic
His catapult of strong elastic
And as she in position came
Young Fred drew long and careful aim
Then sped the pellet swift as thought
Followed quickly by a loud report
Balloon then vanished from the eye
And Sue was left in short supply.
Then came shouts of wild applause
With shouts of 'Bravo' and 'Encores'
And whiskered geezers green with age
Tried to scramble on the stage
But Sue was meanwhile well aware
She could no longer linger there
And to save herself from fate uncertain
Swiftly scrambled up the curtain
Halfway to the top she stuck
Despite the cries of 'Go on duck,
Keep on climbing that's alright,
You don't 'arf look a pretty sight.'
She may have stayed up there for hours
Depending on her staying powers
Had not a stage hand, name of Brown
Volunteered to fetch her down.
On reaching her he closed his eyes
And clutched quite firm his luscious prize
Then Sue cried out in accents cruel
'Hold me here, not there, you fool:'
This story would have ended there
With Sue a sorry 'tail' to 'bare'
But quoth the manager called Len
'We'll do the whole darn thing again'
And so at half past eight each night
Poor Sue repeats her former plight
The crowd look on with stupid awe
As bubbles start to burst galore
And leaping up they stare pop-eyed
At Venus thus personified.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Steve Shaw
Date: 12 Sep 23 - 01:34 PM

Ah, thanks for those! As I read through them I can still hear Cyril's mischievous voice intoning them. We usually had That's Life on, though I didn't have much time for Esther, at least in those days. I once sat on the steps at the Eden Project in July 2005 next to Esther all afternoon at the Make Poverty History event. Ramble away, Steve! :-)

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 18 Sep 23 - 07:44 AM

Eliza Tweet by Cyril Fletcher


This is the tale of Eliza Tweet
Who strolled one night along the street
Picking with dainty fingertips
A fourpenny plaice and two of chips,
Wrapped in a sheet of news which seemed
Had pictures which were most refined.
Then suddenly in such a flutter
She threw her chips out in the gutter,
For on that greasy paper there
Was the answer to a maidens prayer,
'Cos underneath her piece of plaice
Was Cyril Fletcher's smiling face.
So where the vinegar had trickled
His features were a trifle pickled
But 'Liza loved it just the same
And put it in a photo frame...
And now at bedtime has to pause
For Cyril's on her chest of drawers.
She turns his face round to the wall
While she takes off her wear an' all
Then dons her nighty, neat and plain
And shyly turns him round again.
Then she murmers, 'Good night, Duck!'
And kisses where a chip has stuck
Which mars his classic lips so chaste
And gives them such a funny taste.
And then she tells him she'll be true
And swears he answers, 'Thanking you!'
Then jumps in bed to take her rest
With Cyril clutched against her chest
And whispers,'Now I hope to be...
Dreaming oh my love of thee!'

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 18 Sep 23 - 07:45 AM

Baby Battering by Cyril Fletcher



This is the tale of Bluebell Bishop
Who kept a nice fried chip and fishop.
As well as her husband Bert who worked,
She'd also a small son Bill who irked.
Cos he made such an infernal noise
Whilst upstairs playing with his toys.
So much against their dearest wish,
He was brought downstairs amongst the fish.
He paired the kippers from those of odd size,
And he played marbles with the cods' eyes.
His mother cried "You've gone too far...
Take your water pistol out of the vin-e-gar."
But whilst mum and dad were busy cooking
They had no time to keep on looking...
And so it was in all that clatter,
The boy fell in the pan of batter.
And though he kicked and booed and cried,
With hake and cod was nicely fried.
Then in the general rush and fuss
Was sold with chips as octopuss.
It was not until the shop had cleared,
They'd found their son had disappeared,
And though they sought him high and low,
And even down the overflow,
There was no trace of little Bill
Except the profit in the till.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: GUEST
Date: 24 Sep 23 - 07:37 AM

Willie Wapshots by Cyril Fletcher


This is the tale of Willie Wapshots
So very fond of taking snapshots,
Who asked his fiancee-rather rude,
To pose genteely in the nude.
She said 'I do not query whether
You should snap my altogether.
But let's make it refined and simple
And don't forget to take my dimple.'
So as he rushed floodlights to switch on,
She blushingly stood without a stitch on.
And chose poses pleasant and not naughty
Seven by the piano-forte.
Three by the cooker, so bewitchin,
Frying mushrooms in the kitchen.
And though she had to oust the cat,
One by 'Welcome' on the mat.
The film complete a problem hinted
Where was he to get it printed?
The results he knew would be delectable
But the local shop was so respectable.
Then as a magazine advised,
He saw a firm who advertised.
He sent it off and patiently
After three weeks he eagerly
Opened the pack-and did he yell-he
Cried, 'These photos ain't my Nellie!'
Had they done this to him on purpose?
Pictures of three clergymen-each in surplice.
He sent them back and in a note
Most angrily these words he wrote
'I did not take these holy Bruffers,
Mine were of Nellie in her buffers.'
A few days passed, the postman brought
The package that poor Willie sought
His photos and a note were seen
They fell from the parish magazine.
The photos checked, he took the book out,
'The Church of Luke upon the Lookout'
The note said, 'The Reverend Theopholis Knott
Would like one copy of the lot.
My curate, the Reverend Phineas Flatt,
Wants two of Welcome on the mat.
Whilst l, the Reverend Jethro Bloater
Would like the lady in the photer
Undressed as all her photos are
To come and open our bazaar.
We'll say, in case the ladies wail,
She gave her clothes to the jumble sale.
Nothing else could stand in parity.
To such an act of bare faced charity.'

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 28 Sep 23 - 04:14 PM

Queenie Feather by Cyril Fletcher



This is the tale of Queenie Feather
Who fire-watched in all sorts of weather
And being rather scared of bombs
She made herself some tin-lined combs
So went on duty unafraid,
Tin-hat, tin-combs, bucket and spade.
One night on hearing the alert
She filled her bucket up with dirt,
Then scurried up the attic stairs
To stand among the falling flares.
Well, just as she was feeling tired
An anti-aircraft gun was fired,
And as the shell went whizzing past
The tin-combs couldn't stand the blast.
And though poor Queenie tried to duck it
She fell head first in her dirty bucket.
So holding her courage in her hand
She stood like an ostrich in the sand.
The shell which bent our Queenie double
Landed a Jerry plane in trouble
And the Pilot shouting "Here I come"
Landed on poor Queenie's bum.
The tin combs acted like a skewer
And Hitler's air-force was one fewer.
Now like a soldier of the line
Our Queenie is a heroine
George Medal awarded, the Mayor to give it
And for the combs, a golden rivet.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 29 Sep 23 - 08:14 AM

Petunia Pier by Cyril Fletcher


This is the tale of Petunia Pier,
Who put health salts in her boy friend's beer.
Then one day just to pay her out
Her boy friend, name of Percy Prout,
Muttered 'This will stop her farce',
And shoved some fireworks in her glass.
Poor Petunia soppy clot, said
'Bottoms Up' And scoffed the lot.
Then lighting a fag, she murmured 'Cripes
That was a rotten lot of swipes,
The stuff they brew's a proper scandal
My tummies like a Roman Candle!'
Then snorting crossly thru her snout,
Some balls of coloured fire blew out.
Which fell around her burning bright
And set her woolly combs alight.
At which she gave a yell of pain
And belched out showers of golden rain.
Then as she cried 'Oh what disgrace'
A sound just like a squib took place
And several crackers bobbed about
And blew Petunia inside out.
So Percy took her in a sack
Round to the local village quack
Who looked and with a puckish grin
Said 'We'll have to blow her back agin'
And now admits he's puzzled quite
Just where to put the dynamite.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 29 Sep 23 - 11:40 AM

Sheila Clock by Cyril Fletcher



In her bath poor Sheila Clock
Froze into a solid block,
And there with ice floes all around her
Was where her loving Mother found her.
Her Ma exclaimed with startled hiss
'The Doctor must advise on this,
I'll heave you out with ice complete
And slide you to him down the street.'
She met a plumber, Mr. Frizzle,
Complete with blow lamp and a chisel.
She said 'This 'ere's my daughter, Sheila,
She's gone all cold and clammy... feel her.'
He said ' 'Ave you an evenin' paper?
Before I start you'd better drape 'er,
Then I'll feel just where the ice is
And chisel round the fat stock prices
Her husband said 'If there's no hope
You might at least chip out the soap.
I can get another spouse without demur,
But not a cake of Quelque-Fleur.'
Whilst Sheila turning somewhat blue
Said 'Don't forget that I'm here too.
I rather think I'm losing face here
Sitting lonely like a glacier.'
Her Ma exclaimed 'You shut your mouth
Or I'll clout you on your frozen South.'
So then they sawed her from the bath
And put her to melt before the hearth,
And as the pools grew on the floor
Sheila said 'I do feel thaw.'
And never since has the bathroom seen her,
She rubs down now with a vacuum cleaner.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: GUEST
Date: 24 Sep 23 - 07:37 AM

Willie Wapshots by Cyril Fletcher


This is the tale of Willie Wapshots
So very fond of taking snapshots,
Who asked his fiancee-rather rude,
To pose genteely in the nude.
She said 'I do not query whether
You should snap my altogether.
But let's make it refined and simple
And don't forget to take my dimple.'
So as he rushed floodlights to switch on,
She blushingly stood without a stitch on.
And chose poses pleasant and not naughty
Seven by the piano-forte.
Three by the cooker, so bewitchin,
Frying mushrooms in the kitchen.
And though she had to oust the cat,
One by 'Welcome' on the mat.
The film complete a problem hinted
Where was he to get it printed?
The results he knew would be delectable
But the local shop was so respectable.
Then as a magazine advised,
He saw a firm who advertised.
He sent it off and patiently
After three weeks he eagerly
Opened the pack-and did he yell-he
Cried, 'These photos ain't my Nellie!'
Had they done this to him on purpose?
Pictures of three clergymen-each in surplice.
He sent them back and in a note
Most angrily these words he wrote
'I did not take these holy Bruffers,
Mine were of Nellie in her buffers.'
A few days passed, the postman brought
The package that poor Willie sought
His photos and a note were seen
They fell from the parish magazine.
The photos checked, he took the book out,
'The Church of Luke upon the Lookout'
The note said, 'The Reverend Theopholis Knott
Would like one copy of the lot.
My curate, the Reverend Phineas Flatt,
Wants two of Welcome on the mat.
Whilst l, the Reverend Jethro Bloater
Would like the lady in the photer
Undressed as all her photos are
To come and open our bazaar.
We'll say, in case the ladies wail,
She gave her clothes to the jumble sale.
Nothing else could stand in parity.
To such an act of bare faced charity.'

Subject: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 12 Sep 23 - 05:23 AM

Cyril called these Odd Odes

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 12 Sep 23 - 05:25 AM

Hector Cramp by Cyril Fletcher


This is the tale of Hector Cramp
Who tried to join a nudist camp
Unfortunately he was tough
And if that wasn't bad enough
Bore signs of toughness everywhere
In fact he was a mass of hair.
Hair on his arms, hair on his back
Hair on his legs and hair on his….. er... feet!
In fact there wasn't anywhere
About him that there wasn't hair
And when of clothes he was divested
The head man of the camp suggested
He didn't look a wee bit raw
And looked as well clothed as before
And said, suspicious of a plot,
'We don't know if you're nude or not!'
And called to the head gardener... 'Jim,
'Run the lawn mower over him!'
So on the ground they lay poor Cramp
Although the grass was frightfully damp
And the head gardener, nothing loath
Tried to remove poor Hector's growth.
But Hector's hair was tough as wire
And nearly set the mower on fire.
With friction it became red-hot
And the head man, soon upon the spot said,
'Upon my life,...
we'll have to go and fetch a scythe!'
But when with scythe they did appear
Hector was filled with a terrible fear
And said 'No, no, you never shall
I'm not a harvest festival'.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 12 Sep 23 - 07:54 AM

SONIA SNELL   by Cyril Fletcher



This is the tale of Sonia Snell,
To whom an accident befell.
An accident which may well seem
Embarrassing in the extreme.
It happened, as it does to many,
That Sonia had to spend a penny.
She entered in with modest grace
The properly appointed place
Provided at the railway station,
And there she sat in meditation,
Unfortunately unacquainted
The woodwork had been newly painted
Which made poor Sonia realise
Her inability to rise.
And though she struggled, pulled and yelled
She found that she was firmly held.
She raised her voice in mournful shout
'Please someone come and help me out.'
Her cries for help then quickly brought
A crowd of every kind and sort.
They stood around and feebly sniggered
And all they said was 'I'll be jiggered.'
'Gor blimey' said the ancient porter
'We ought to soak her off with water.'
The Station Master and the staff
Were most perverse and did not laugh
But lugged at Sonia's hands and feet
But could not get her off the seat.
The carpenter arrived at last
And, finding Sonia still stuck fast
Remarked, 'I know what I can do',
And neatly sawed the seat right through.
Sonia arose, only to find
A wooden halo on behind.
An ambulance came down the street
And bore her off, complete with seat
To take the wooden bustled gal
Off quickly to the hospital.
They hurried Sonia off inside
After a short but painful ride
And seizing her by heels and head
Laid her face down on the bed.
The doctors all came on parade
To render her immediate aid.
A surgeon said, 'Upon my word
Could anything be more absurd,
Have any of you, I implore,
Seen anything like this before?'
'Yes' said a student, unashamed,
'Frequently... but never framed.'

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 12 Sep 23 - 08:05 AM

Striptease Sue by Cyril Fletcher


I'll herewith introduce you to
A strip-tease dancer name of Sue
Each night performed upon the halls
Casting off her scanty 'smalls',
She clutched balloon instead of fan
As lightly round the stage she ran
And due to covering quite inferior
Showed portions of her pink exterior
At this the crowd would loudly cheer
(With witty comments from the rear)
Suggesting that they'd like revealed
Those bits and pieces still concealed
But to this show there came one night
A schoolboy, name of Freddie White
On looking round he spotted soon
The front of Sue behind balloon
An evil gleam grew in his eye
As with a soft and thankful sigh
Prepared to use with action drastic
His catapult of strong elastic
And as she in position came
Young Fred drew long and careful aim
Then sped the pellet swift as thought
Followed quickly by a loud report
Balloon then vanished from the eye
And Sue was left in short supply.
Then came shouts of wild applause
With shouts of 'Bravo' and 'Encores'
And whiskered geezers green with age
Tried to scramble on the stage
But Sue was meanwhile well aware
She could no longer linger there
And to save herself from fate uncertain
Swiftly scrambled up the curtain
Halfway to the top she stuck
Despite the cries of 'Go on duck,
Keep on climbing that's alright,
You don't 'arf look a pretty sight.'
She may have stayed up there for hours
Depending on her staying powers
Had not a stage hand, name of Brown
Volunteered to fetch her down.
On reaching her he closed his eyes
And clutched quite firm his luscious prize
Then Sue cried out in accents cruel
'Hold me here, not there, you fool:'
This story would have ended there
With Sue a sorry 'tail' to 'bare'
But quoth the manager called Len
'We'll do the whole darn thing again'
And so at half past eight each night
Poor Sue repeats her former plight
The crowd look on with stupid awe
As bubbles start to burst galore
And leaping up they stare pop-eyed
At Venus thus personified.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 18 Sep 23 - 07:44 AM

Eliza Tweet by Cyril Fletcher


This is the tale of Eliza Tweet
Who strolled one night along the street
Picking with dainty fingertips
A fourpenny plaice and two of chips,
Wrapped in a sheet of news which seemed
Had pictures which were most refined.
Then suddenly in such a flutter
She threw her chips out in the gutter,
For on that greasy paper there
Was the answer to a maidens prayer,
'Cos underneath her piece of plaice
Was Cyril Fletcher's smiling face.
So where the vinegar had trickled
His features were a trifle pickled
But 'Liza loved it just the same
And put it in a photo frame...
And now at bedtime has to pause
For Cyril's on her chest of drawers.
She turns his face round to the wall
While she takes off her wear an' all
Then dons her nighty, neat and plain
And shyly turns him round again.
Then she murmers, 'Good night, Duck!'
And kisses where a chip has stuck
Which mars his classic lips so chaste
And gives them such a funny taste.
And then she tells him she'll be true
And swears he answers, 'Thanking you!'
Then jumps in bed to take her rest
With Cyril clutched against her chest
And whispers,'Now I hope to be...
Dreaming oh my love of thee!'

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 18 Sep 23 - 07:45 AM

Baby Battering by Cyril Fletcher



This is the tale of Bluebell Bishop
Who kept a nice fried chip and fishop.
As well as her husband Bert who worked,
She'd also a small son Bill who irked.
Cos he made such an infernal noise
Whilst upstairs playing with his toys.
So much against their dearest wish,
He was brought downstairs amongst the fish.
He paired the kippers from those of odd size,
And he played marbles with the cods' eyes.
His mother cried "You've gone too far...
Take your water pistol out of the vin-e-gar."
But whilst mum and dad were busy cooking
They had no time to keep on looking...
And so it was in all that clatter,
The boy fell in the pan of batter.
And though he kicked and booed and cried,
With hake and cod was nicely fried.
Then in the general rush and fuss
Was sold with chips as octopuss.
It was not until the shop had cleared,
They'd found their son had disappeared,
And though they sought him high and low,
And even down the overflow,
There was no trace of little Bill
Except the profit in the till.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 28 Sep 23 - 04:14 PM

Queenie Feather by Cyril Fletcher



This is the tale of Queenie Feather
Who fire-watched in all sorts of weather
And being rather scared of bombs
She made herself some tin-lined combs
So went on duty unafraid,
Tin-hat, tin-combs, bucket and spade.
One night on hearing the alert
She filled her bucket up with dirt,
Then scurried up the attic stairs
To stand among the falling flares.
Well, just as she was feeling tired
An anti-aircraft gun was fired,
And as the shell went whizzing past
The tin-combs couldn't stand the blast.
And though poor Queenie tried to duck it
She fell head first in her dirty bucket.
So holding her courage in her hand
She stood like an ostrich in the sand.
The shell which bent our Queenie double
Landed a Jerry plane in trouble
And the Pilot shouting "Here I come"
Landed on poor Queenie's bum.
The tin combs acted like a skewer
And Hitler's air-force was one fewer.
Now like a soldier of the line
Our Queenie is a heroine
George Medal awarded, the Mayor to give it
And for the combs, a golden rivet.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 29 Sep 23 - 08:14 AM

Petunia Pier by Cyril Fletcher


This is the tale of Petunia Pier,
Who put health salts in her boy friend's beer.
Then one day just to pay her out
Her boy friend, name of Percy Prout,
Muttered 'This will stop her farce',
And shoved some fireworks in her glass.
Poor Petunia soppy clot, said
'Bottoms Up' And scoffed the lot.
Then lighting a fag, she murmured 'Cripes
That was a rotten lot of swipes,
The stuff they brew's a proper scandal
My tummies like a Roman Candle!'
Then snorting crossly thru her snout,
Some balls of coloured fire blew out.
Which fell around her burning bright
And set her woolly combs alight.
At which she gave a yell of pain
And belched out showers of golden rain.
Then as she cried 'Oh what disgrace'
A sound just like a squib took place
And several crackers bobbed about
And blew Petunia inside out.
So Percy took her in a sack
Round to the local village quack
Who looked and with a puckish grin
Said 'We'll have to blow her back agin'
And now admits he's puzzled quite
Just where to put the dynamite.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Monologue John
Date: 29 Sep 23 - 11:40 AM

Sheila Clock by Cyril Fletcher



In her bath poor Sheila Clock
Froze into a solid block,
And there with ice floes all around her
Was where her loving Mother found her.
Her Ma exclaimed with startled hiss
'The Doctor must advise on this,
I'll heave you out with ice complete
And slide you to him down the street.'
She met a plumber, Mr. Frizzle,
Complete with blow lamp and a chisel.
She said 'This 'ere's my daughter, Sheila,
She's gone all cold and clammy... feel her.'
He said ' 'Ave you an evenin' paper?
Before I start you'd better drape 'er,
Then I'll feel just where the ice is
And chisel round the fat stock prices
Her husband said 'If there's no hope
You might at least chip out the soap.
I can get another spouse without demur,
But not a cake of Quelque-Fleur.'
Whilst Sheila turning somewhat blue
Said 'Don't forget that I'm here too.
I rather think I'm losing face here
Sitting lonely like a glacier.'
Her Ma exclaimed 'You shut your mouth
Or I'll clout you on your frozen South.'
So then they sawed her from the bath
And put her to melt before the hearth,
And as the pools grew on the floor
Sheila said 'I do feel thaw.'
And never since has the bathroom seen her,
She rubs down now with a vacuum cleaner.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher
From: Steve Shaw
Date: 12 Sep 23 - 01:34 PM

Ah, thanks for those! As I read through them I can still hear Cyril's mischievous voice intoning them. We usually had That's Life on, though I didn't have much time for Esther, at least in those days. I once sat on the steps at the Eden Project in July 2005 next to Esther all afternoon at the Make Poverty History event. Ramble away, Steve! :-)