The Ballad of Scarthin Books
by
P.Mc. The Bonsall Balladeer
Composed for the Christmas Dinner 2006
Behold our happy little band,
Replete with Christmas nosh;
The tall, the short, the fat, the thin,
The poor, the pleb, the posh.
Our festive fare is financed by
Frequenters of the shop,
Who purchase sad, rejected books
At fifty pence a pop.
There's daffy Dave, our bristly boss,
Whose fuse is short and lit;
He often stamps his little feet
And throws a hissy-fit.
Sitting in his bright green van
He chugs from door to door,
Buying books no-one will read
To clutter up the store.
He loves to warble in the choir,
Do German conversation,
Demolish apples by the ton,
Indulge in procreation.
He has a lovely, fragrant wife,
Kathy is her name.
We don't know how she manages
To stay completely sane.
She seems to rise above it all,
And for the common weal,
All wayward eccentricities
Are calmly brought to heel.
Gazing glumly at the screen,
In his lair on high,
Buying, selling, holding forth,
Is dishy doctor Guy.
He perches in his eyrie,
His noddle full of nous,
Talons tapping tirelessly
Or meddling with a mouse.
There is no publication
Beyond his sleuthing guile;
He sates the unrequited lusts
Of every bookophile.
Straight across the landing is
The bower of his mate,
Adorned with bed and bubble-wrap,
With which she plies her trade.
She strives to satisfy the needs
Of bobbies on the beat;
While servicing head-masters is
Her very special treat.
Even little children
Are brought under her wing,
Enticed by toys and Noddy books
And Lord of the sodding Ring.
With her on the topmost bough
Is Ivan in his dray;
He strokes old volumes lovingly,
Then squirrels them away.
Bushy-tailed, with hairiness
Upon his upper lip,
He skips about and greets us with
A merry little quip:
'I am a happy Nutkin,
I love my master's voice,
I gladly do his bidding,
I have no chuffin' choice.'
Down below there's Jenny Wren,
A most efficient chick;
She juggles phones and customers,
And adds up double-quick.
Each summer she migrates upstairs
In order to release
Our pair of nesting love-birds
When they fly off to Greece.
She settles in so seamlessly,
Just like a seasoned trouper,
Even though she's nothing but
A makeshift mini-Cooper.
Mrs Mitchell number one
Comes in to cook the books.
Any small discrepancy
She blithely overlooks.
She rootles in the undergrowth
And tidies up the mess.
Though where she shelves the piles of dross
Is anybody's guess.
After that she counts the cash
And, with her little quill,
Scratches words we dread to read:
'Ten pounds up on till'.
Sometimes in the canopy,
Sometimes on the ground,
You'll find a short-haired gopher
Scurrying around.
He's not the only David
Dwelling in the wood,
And so to differentiate,
We call him 'Dave the Good'.
He'll turn his paw to anything,
Say nothing indiscreet;
But most of all we love him 'cos
His writing's nice and neat.
Another of our groundlings
Doesn't give a hoot;
She's rude to all her colleagues
And customers to boot.
She swans in on a Wednesday
As if she owns the place,
Makes a cup of coffee
And gazes into space.
Her manner is imperious,
Her language so obscene,
The gaffer has convinced himself
She studied at Roedean.
The black arts of the book-search world
Are practised by a babe
Who unlocks all the mysteries
Of Amazon and abe.
Her plumage is exotic, with
Bright colours on her breast;
Flamboyant feathers flutter as she
Deals with each request.
From Canberra to Cockermouth
She trawls for bygone tomes;
Forsaken and forgotten -
She finds them loving homes.
Dressed up like a harlequin
Is Trevor in the caff
And Rambling Rose, whose uniform is
Equally as naff.
Exuding wholesomeness, they chop
And dice and strain and whip;
Organic odours waft about,
Digestive juices drip.
They're helped by several scullions
Grafting in the galley,
Like Freya and Corinna
And master-baker Mally.
Corinna also wields a broom,
A hoover and a duster;
She purifies the porcelain -
No residues disgust her.
And when she's not unblocking bogs
Or knocking up some buns,
She's sorting out the Ladybirds
And little Pelicans.
A rooster sometimes flies on in
To rearrange the stock.
With a ten-foot wing-span,
He is a massive cock.
It's Marcus the Magnificent
Moonlighting in the hols;
A break from teaching Trollope to
A bunch of Derby proles.
When erect and rearing up
He reaches every nook;
There is no narrow opening
Where he can't slot a book.
We finish with the weekend flock
And others I have missed,
Like Eve and Fran and Sallyann
And Caroline and Fliss.
So, Merry Christmas to us all,
Who slave away at Scarthin's,
To keep the bailiffs from the door
And stop the Mitchells starving.
