(part two)

There was a fairy lived on our veranda
She was pretty, and carefree and fey,
And if it wasn`t for the fact that my dad couldn`t stand her,
She still might be out there today.

 

It was one Sunday morning I found her,
As the chapel-bells chimed down below,
All a-drip with the pearls of the dew-drops around her
And wrapped in a silver-mist glow.

 

I was worried for fear I`d offend her,
And had started to tip-toe away
When she called me and asked would I kindly attend her
With rye bread and milk every day.

 

I answered – quite shy and embarrassed -
What an honour I felt it to be
To serve her and, so that she wouldn`t feel harassed,
I`d bring it each dawn secretly.

 

Then, one morning, while watching her bask there,
She looked so contented and well
That I plucked up the courage to ask her:
Would she work me a real fairy spell.

 

As quick as a flash! As our time goes,
An enchantment was laid on my eye,
And a billow of basket-weave rainbows
Made a colourful web of the sky.

 

Her first spell was brilliant and witty,
Though a little bit near to the bone
You see: All of the cream of the city
Were laying a foundation stone.

 

The scheme was for pensioners dwellings.
The Lord Mayor had just finished a speech
That had left every loyal heart swelling
At it`s depth, and compassion, and reach.

 

As the city church dignitaries prayed
The titular head of the town
Declared the stone solemnly Laid
And then...all the men`s trousers fell down!

 

The crowd quite lost all it`s deportment
And burst into spontaneous applause
At such a spectacular assortment
Of ultra-magnificent drawers.

 

The Lord Mayor`s (and indeed it was fitting)
Easily held pride of first place
And displayed - either standing or sitting -
Scallops of Chantilly lace.

 

On the bottom (he hoped to be knighted)
Was a delicately worked coat of arms,
With slashes strategically sited
Displaying his cheeky, pink charms

 

The Anglian Bishop`s were clerical,
Decent grey in a no-nonsense cotton.
But (shamefully un-ecumenical)
`Down with the Pope` on the bottom

 

The Catholic Bishops were gothical
Sinisterly slinky and long
But - to show it was not just erotical -
(It matched his hair-shirt) a hair-thong.

 

 The head of the planning committee`s
Had quotes from the prophets and scribes,
A fine, printed plan of the city
And a pocket for planting his bribes.

 

The union-man`s got the best shout,
Rebel red, with a T.U.C. crest,
But then somebody bellowed `all out`
(I`ll let you imagine the rest).

 

The Red chief`s had red superstars
-a couple each kicking a ball-
In a motif of goalposts and bars.
(The Blue`s chief had none on at all)

 

As the onlookers gleefully shared
The joy and delightful release
The fairy reluctantly declared
That the evening must come to a cease.

 

So she curtly commanded each man
To face the red sun in the west
And respectfully raise up his hands
As it gloriously went to it`s rest

 

As the sun set in gentle degrees
(And the crowd grew respectfully mute)
Each man`s knickers slid down to his knees
And he gave a `Heil Sunset` salute.

 

(The bishops of course hesitated
Finding themselves at a loss.
So one flung himself earthward, prostrated,
And one made a sign of the cross.)

 

I would love to have seen how it ended
- If everything finished up well -
But the Fairy looked slightly offended,
And said, `Let`s work a different spell`.