THE LITTLE PLUMBER’S MATE

He was a friend of mine Bill,

        the little plumber’s mate;

and every day to the job

        he came bloody late.

His tools were stolen

        from others on the site;

and every lunchtime alone

        he flew a silly kite.

He was a bastard of a kid,

        in trouble was he ever;

you couldn’t tell sure enough

        if stupid was or clever.

At four o’clock he would drop tools

        and head toward the trains;

he couldn’t stay at work

        with a tonne of chains.

For plumbing, pipes and the rest

        he didn’t have the brains;

imagine how hopeless

        he was with the drains.

But fair’s fair, faults and all,

        he loved to be a plumber;

although pipes didn’t have,

        for him, size or number.

Alas, that day – poor thing –

        worked alone in drains

which collapsed upon him then

        because of heavy rains.

And so, at the funeral

        the friends had to appear

and after it all at the pub

        got stuck into the beer.

He was forgotten by all,

        until a darkened night

from my bed, like a shot,

        jumped I in a fright.

Before me stood, what I thought,

        an angel in white –

two metres tall – with wings,

        emblazoned in light.

He left me numb and speechless –

In mouth felt the bile –

he looked at me in a bemused

        and calming gentle smile.

He said to me that he was sent

        to earth in much a hurry

and me to heavens with him

        as passenger to carry.

So, the two of us had left

        heading to paradise;

he seemed fast and very deft

        and very much wise.

Into a court he took me then,

        atop a great stair;

around lawyers and men;

        and sat me in a chair.

Spread in a row on a bench

        evidence for the case –

a hammer, pipes and a wrench –

        and water in vase.

Into the court then came God –

donned in a purple gown –

and then with a slight nod

        the lot of us sat down.

All grew quiet and still

      as out of the drains

the little friend of mine, Bill,

        was brought along in chains.

Into a cage then he sat

        like he didn’t care;

he looked like a little rat –

        a sight bloody rare.

I was let into the box

evidence to provide –

by a bailiff big as an ox,

        ( his sneer couldn’t hide ).

Telling the truth I resent,

        don’t like black-white;

the truth that’s halved and bent

        is colourful and bright.

Funny a thing, then I thought,

        as ready was to fake,

a bible nobody brought

        the oath thus to take.

Goody oh goody, what a luck –

must be divine fate –

the truth shall I now muck

        to help a little mate.

Over the rails took a look,

        smiled at little Billy;

as usual he looked a sook;

        a bastard small and silly.

……………………………………………………………………..

****( Storyline : Apparently little Billy was a plumber’s mate in Paradise and crossed, in error, the water pipes with the gas pipes and blew up a big chunk of the place. Therefor the poem and its storyline may be deemed unfinished. The court process, charges, examination and verdict may still need to be described. Putting down these events escape my imagination for now. Anyone else may continue with it ).

Poem by Peter Savvides  (composed in the 1980’s).

The downloadable version of the poem is below. This poem must not be sold in any form, and copyright remains with the author, Peter Savvides.