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Martin Cook

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Trunk

Playing a barrel organ at Battersea Funfair
stretched me to the limit of my musical skill,
but I just about got away with it,
for nobody on the bumper cars, big dipper or carousels
gave a fig for the noise I made
because I blotted out London's traffic din,
unpleasantly woofing urban dogs
and cheekily tweeting sparrows.

Then I won first prize in a Billy Joel quiz
by knowing his album The Nylon Curtain
and the date of its issue, and so found myself
bound for the golden sands of California.

I'd spending money too so I bought Bermuda shorts,
hired a bright red Cadillac and cruised down a sunlit beach
listening to a tape of me playing my barrel organ,
when two innocent-looking fellows
with long blond hair and spliffs
waved me down and asked for a lift.

And here I am, bound and gagged
in what they call the trunk.
They've switched my music off,
while making impertinent comments
about square Limey bastards,
and turned on boisterous rap
with woofers and tweeters
cranked up to the limit.

Just get me hack to Battersea,
dodging woofing dogs
beside the murky brown Thames
where cheekily tweeting sparrows
dodge in and out among over-fed pigeons.

But now the woofers and tweeters have stopped.
I'm stuck in this bloody trunk and the rising tide's
wetting my brand new Bermuda shorts.

 

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