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12 Sep 23 - 05:23 AM (#4181389) Subject: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John Cyril called these Odd Odes |
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12 Sep 23 - 05:23 AM (#4190233) Subject: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John Cyril called these Odd Odes |
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12 Sep 23 - 05:25 AM (#4190234) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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'. |
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12 Sep 23 - 05:25 AM (#4181390) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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'. |
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12 Sep 23 - 07:54 AM (#4181405) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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.' |
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12 Sep 23 - 07:54 AM (#4190235) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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.' |
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12 Sep 23 - 08:05 AM (#4190236) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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. |
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12 Sep 23 - 08:05 AM (#4181407) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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. |
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12 Sep 23 - 01:34 PM (#4181430) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Steve Shaw 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! :-) |
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12 Sep 23 - 01:34 PM (#4190242) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Steve Shaw 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! :-) |
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18 Sep 23 - 07:44 AM (#4181884) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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!' |
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18 Sep 23 - 07:44 AM (#4190237) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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!' |
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18 Sep 23 - 07:45 AM (#4190238) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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. |
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18 Sep 23 - 07:45 AM (#4181885) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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. |
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24 Sep 23 - 07:37 AM (#4182311) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: GUEST 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.' |
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24 Sep 23 - 07:37 AM (#4190232) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: GUEST 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.' |
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28 Sep 23 - 04:14 PM (#4182625) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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. |
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28 Sep 23 - 04:14 PM (#4190239) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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. |
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29 Sep 23 - 08:14 AM (#4190240) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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. |
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29 Sep 23 - 08:14 AM (#4182664) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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. |
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29 Sep 23 - 11:40 AM (#4182678) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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. |
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29 Sep 23 - 11:40 AM (#4190241) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Cyril Fletcher From: Monologue John 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. |