Saturday, 24 May 2014

Father Used His Slipper

Don't know whether anyone remembers what whitewash was/is, its burnt lime mixed with water in a bucket or tub the brushed onto the cowshed walls. It dries very white, and very often also used on the ceilings in the house. After the coating of lime had been refreshed a couple of times a year for the previous forty or fifty years there builds up a thickness of lime and this eventually becomes brittle. 
When us kids started jumping about in our bedroom above the kitchen, flakes of whitewash would fall onto fathers head and into his paper as he was resting and reading after a long day’s work. This he did not appreciate.

Father Used His Slipper

Father always used his slipper, when we were being naughty,
But we were quick and dodged about, for he was over forty,
He chased upstairs into our room, he thought he’d got us now,
We dived under both the beds, to reach us he dint know how.

Looking back he never hurt us, he slapped his slipper on the floor,
The noise and shouting gave us speed, that we never had before,
Old farmhouse two lots of stairs, up one set and down the other,
Dad soon got out of puff; and shouted for our mother.

A couple of smacks across the bum, and on he put his slipper,
And told us off when we did wrong, but never was he bitter,
Respect was what he taught us, and elders must not cheek,
Listen to what you’re being told, with P’s and Q’s must speak.

Pillow fights at bed time, when we should be fast asleep,
Jumping high up to the ceiling, were not counting sheep,
Our room was buv the kitchen, and noise he couldn’t stand,
Heard him rushing up the stairs, for piece and quite demand.

When he came in, were in bed, feathers floating round the light,
Pretending were asleep, bulb still swinging from the fight,
Settle down we had to now, if he came up a second time,
We’d all be in trouble, twas the stairs that he had to climb.

He had done a hard days work, and had settled in his chair,
And running up the stairs at night, enough to make him swear,
Slipper slapping on the treads, we knew what he had got,
So fast asleep pretend to be, looked like he’d lost the plot.

Owd Fred

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