This week Frank gets misty-eyed and nostalgic about something or other.
Hats are off in Docking; caps are being doffed. The council’s got a town plan. The maths are on a chart. Pips have been spat out and drudgery is bye-byed. Chocolate puddings seem to be in everybody’s pantry. And here comes Pebblehead père. He caught a shark in waters. His sou’wester’s been askew since 1954-ish. Bubbles surge from froth. The chemist’s shop is shut. There’s pills & pills & pills that no Docking man could swallow. Suffering aborted. The council in a caucus. The shaven heads of heads of state are battering the doors down. The city gates, the turrets, the alleys, roads & mews: Docking has its ears all go for red alert decisions. Language has been no-no’d, the bamboo men are wailing, the breakage rate is scheduled: the system has been broken. Crayons pink & stacked, the burnt sienna packaged. Vandals clash at nightfall, but Docking has its crackers. Plastic wrapped in plastic. The Docking coffers emptied. Idiot brawl saloon bar, a gorgeous snag-tooth babble. Prepared to dance a hoo-cha, not a tear or boo-hoo. Thousands of museums stacked with golden maps. Misshapen trunk road closures. Big stone reconstructions. Docking’s cottoned on: it’s a town about a tower. The frame is out of kilter, the coughing’s filling coffins. Oh, but I want to go back to that Docking, Docking hack.
The more I stumble and stutter, chortle and mutter through the Bealach na Ba that are your posts Frank, the more I am convinced that you are a reincarnated Salvador Dali.
Nice place, Docking. Near the north Norfolk coast.
Pox Pop, Docking Hack,
Pox Pop, Docking Hack
Eine Kleine Rammsteinmusik,
Triumph of Norbiton, Saunton Sands.
There was a little place called Docking
whose new town plan needed some blocking
the new zoning’s a mess
more is really much less:
the Key exposé is quite shocking.
There was a young vicar of Docking
Who’s snoot he was frequently cocking
At the antics of Key
And his cupboard so glee
Truth to tell he needs a defrocking