Austin 7 Poems

by Club Poet Jean Smith

The Alternative ITALIAN ANTICS Autumn Amble

The Ebullient Eight

Four in a Bed

BUM'S the Word

Whitterings Whimpers

Winter Motoring

The Alternative ITALIAN ANTICS Autumn Amble^©


We set off in our normal rush
Forgetting comb and hairbrush.
Arrived at Robins with time to spare
As Nod and Judy wasn’t there.

When they arrived, we put our bags
In their car, with Judy’s fags!
Arrived at Gatwick, parked the car,
Caught a bus, Terminal too far.

At the Terminal we ‘checked-in’
Whilst Robin and co. arrived in a spin.
He had been at work that morn
On arrival they looked quite worn!

Flight was good, were impressed,
Stepped from the plane, overdressed!
Sun was blazing, was humid and hot
As to the cars, we all did trot.

Arrived at our hotel in time,
For evening meal and Lager and lime.
Alas poor Richard, got lost on the way.
So he and his crew had a lousy day!

The following day, we took to the boats
Whilst on board, I took some notes.
On the Hols, went here and there,
In fact we travelled everywhere!

Saw lakes, Como, Maggiore and Garda,
Filled our bellies with ice cream and Lager.
Worst part was, for me and the likes,
Were the mad Italians on their motorbikes!

They rode their bikes, like there’s no tomorrow
Causing fear, and sometimes sorrow.
They came from the front, then from the rear
Passed by each side of our car in top gear.

Never knowing, from whence they would come,
They scared me rigid; in a car it’s not fun!
Apart from that, we had a great time,
Me, our friends and that husband of mine.

We all ate well, drunk plenty of beer,
And in the evenings, were full of cheer.
But like all good things, it came to an end
So back on the motorway, we did wend.

When safe at the airport, I was so glad,
As the lorry drivers were also mad!
Give them an inch, and in they swerved,
I felt myself, becoming unnerved!

I closed my eyes, prayed to Heaven,
Thanking God, we were not in our Seven!
At the airport, we jumped on the plane.
Within a few hours, we were home again.

Jean M Smith, September 2006
 

The Ebullient Eight^©

On an Austin holiday in Brittany, a group of eight went for a short walk along the beach in search of a restaurant, getting thoroughly lost and getting into all sorts of trouble...

.

What a day it turned out to be,
That nice pleasant saunter, beside the sea.
It started so well, having fun on the way,
Convinced that ‘The Restaurant’ was just round the bay.

As the walk became hard, over rocks and soft sand,
We decided to leave, and walk safely on land.
As we walked up the slipway, we did espy,
A steep narrow path, which we did not pass by.

So we scrambled up, finally reaching the top,
But Jane’s ‘call of nature’ forced her to stop!
We continued to walk, along the cliff edge,
Where I scratched my hand, on a bramble hedge.

Then we saw cyclists, far up ahead,
“That must be the road,” our map-reader said.
So in between, the barbed wire we trod,
On hands and knees, we crawled in the sod.

Through fields of corn, insects buzzing quite loud,
The sun burning hot, as there wasn’t a cloud.
On through the fields, where Pam started to tire,
On stomachs once more, under barbed wire.

I mentioned once, that this wasn’t the way,
When I walked with the Lloyds, one summer day.
But no-one took notice, so we soldiered on,
By this time we found, all our water had gone!

We discovered the road, much to our relief,
But chose to ignore it, and took ‘the path to grief.’
We stumbled along, getting hotter and hotter,
And tried to walk faster, to weary to potter.

Extra Strong Mints, was our form of nutrition,
We rationed them out, with no favouritism!
At the end of the path, was a deep ravine,
‘The restaurant’ we wanted, just couldn’t be seen!

I said “At ‘The restaurant,’ could one see Mont-Saint-Michel?”
“Yes” chorused the others, “Oh, bloomin’ hell!”
Mont-Saint-Michel, had gone from our sight,
We’d obviously ventured, too far to the right!

We retraced our steps, now weary and worn,
Sweating like pigs, and looking forlorn.
Then Roland, our Saviour, came to our rescue,
Said “I’ll go ahead, to see what I can do.”

“I’ll find my way back, and return with the car,”
“Now stay on this road, don’t travel too far.”
We waited awhile, and who should appear?
Iris and Bob with some water – not beer.

Roland returned, in his lovely Rolls Royce,
And the men started walking, (but not out of choice),
Roland yelled, “Come back, its far too far.”
“Just come back here, and climb in the car.”

Said Roland “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of space,”
“So cheer up you folks, put a smile on your face.”
Now in the front seat sat Jane, Roland and Pam,
I’m in the rear, with Jude and Leonard Norman.

To Roger and Bob, he said, “You’re on the back,”
“Just stand up there, on the luggage rack”
Well, off we set, the Ebullient Eight,
In the four seater Rolls, most inappropriate!

‘Last of the Summer Wine’ had nothing on us,
As the elegant Rolls, looked more like a bus!
What a sight we did look, but we did get a laugh,
As Judy and Jane, took their photograph,

Of Roger and Bob, hanging on for grim death,
To scared to let go, as could be their last breath!
They did look so funny, hanging on tight,
With their bums in the air, and knuckles quite white!

Then ‘Sods Law’ reared its own ugly head,
As we heard the police siren, (killed our laughter stone dead).
They came up behind us, then pulled to the side,
Amazed by the sight, of men hanging outside!

The policewoman had, a job not to smile,
But he seemed quite stern, not very docile.
He insisted he take, Roland’s licence away,
That horrid policeman – he ruined our day!

But he did allow Roland, to partake in a drink,
At ‘The restaurant” where, our hearts started to sink.
Concerned about what, the outcome would be,
And should we involve, fluent Sue or Mollie?

It was decided, that ignorance was best,
And five of us left, after having a rest.
In the Rolls Royce, we travelled on down,
To St. John Le Thomas – it’s hardly a town.

We hadn’t gone far, when who did appear?
That bloomin’ police car, was right up our rear!
Well, all ended well, Roland’s licence returned,
With a sigh of relief, no points had he earned.

So what a great day, it turned out to be,
One we’ll remember, by you lot and me.

Jean M Smith, July 2003

Four-in-a-Bed^©

Sent in response to a Christmas Card featuring four Austineers in a bed in Wiltshire..

.

Thank you for the Christmas card, what more can one say?
Four in the bed must have been fun, and surely made your day.
But you look so bloody stupid, wearing hats in bed,
Wasn’t there a cloak stand, to hang the hats instead?

Now what about the boots, were you wearing footwear too?
Nothing will surprise us, about anything you do!
Muddy boots with crud on them, and probably not very clean,
Messing up the duvet, with no thoughts of the hygiene.

It must have been very cosy, closely lying hips to chest,
How come it was only four, where were all the bloomin’ rest?
I suspect that they behaved themselves, just as they normally do,
Not wishing to soil their reputations, with the likes of you!

But what the heck? You did have fun when you were in bed,
Far better to have a laugh now, as its impossible when dead!

Happy New Year!

by Jean M Smith, July 2003

BUM's the Word^©

Wrote for Jane Lewry following an 'event' in a hotel in Ploumanach


It was in the month of June, when we went on holiday,
With the 750 Motor Club, we travelled to Benodet.
The weather was hot and humid, and the company was great,
The food was quite delicious, so obviously we ate,

And drunk plenty of the French booze, just to quench our thirst,
Well, that’s our excuse for drinking, not the second one, but first.
Later on that week, we drove our cars along the track,
And followed the route signposted, ‘This way to Ploumanach.’

Now Ploumanach’s the place, where we have stayed before.
It’s where Bob Smith, by mistake, opened up your door!
And found you lying gracefully, upon your double bed,
He really was concerned that day, as he thought that you were dead!

It was there at Ploumanach, you raised the delicate subject of BUMS,
It could have been eyes, or hair, or knees, or just roly poly tums!
But, Oh no! Not you Jane, ‘twas men’s BUMS that ‘turned you on,’
And you got us women going, though we knew it was so wrong!

The waiters’ BUM was favourite, but from our Motor Club,
It was Robin’s BUM you fancied - the one you wanted to rub?
So this year, whilst Robin, sat eating by your side,
This secret started surfacing, which I could no longer hide.

And in a loud distinctive voice, it was so loud and clear,
I mentioned, quite proudly, and for everyone to hear.
“Is Robin’s BUM the one, that you would still vote for now?”
“Oh! Shut your mouth” you said, then murmured “Silly cow.”

Now Robin looked up at you, and then he glanced at me,
And said, “What is this I hear?” his face alight with glee.
He certainly wasn’t embarrassed; he had a smile upon his face.
Was he secretly pleased to learn, his BUM took ‘pride of place?’

Now David Charles, across from me, asked, “Where did I come in line?”
“As I recall,” I said to him, “Your BUM was number nine.”
And then you looked at me, and in a voice so very bold,
Announced “You are a SNITCHER, as secrets you have told.”

“It took me seven years” I said, “That’s pretty good for me.”
“It makes no difference.” you replied, “You’re still a SNITCHER you see.”
Well, every time I use that word, or even write it down,
It brings a smile upon my face, but sometimes it is a frown.

SNITCHER, what a word to use, reminds me of long ago,
When little girls were bitches, when names were banded to and fro.
SNITCHER, is a word from the past, it’s one I had forgotten,
But, then I’m lucky, I grew up, it no longer makes me feel rotten.

Ah! Jane, I have to ‘thank you’, as this I have to say,
When you used the word SNITCHER, it really made my day.
Now you are very privileged, not to everyone I send,
These awful poetic verses, so I hope you can comprehend!

I’m not trying to ‘get even’, or to have a little poke,
But ‘twas the best laugh that I’ve had, since I suffered with my stroke!
Now this is the end of my poem, “Thank God,” I can hear you say,
But it’s more fun to receive these words, than junk mail that arrives each day!

by Jean M Smith (The SNITCHER)
July 2001
 

Whitterings Whimpers©


Events at the Witterings...


As we drove into West Wittering, the sun was truly out,
The breeze was very gentle, with blue skies all about.
Bob parked the car, upon the green, where the air was pure.
(With not many SAND or SAND flies), that’s for bloomin’ sure!

“It’s lovely here” I said to Bob, he said, “We can’t stay here”
“Why not?” I asked, “Because” he said, swigging on some beer.
“We have to go with Robin, as he has the Barbecues.”
“I hope we’ll not be trekking far, from the Ladies Loos.”

“Oh, stop your moaning woman.” “You’ll have to sit cross legged.”
“It won’t hurt if you wet your knicks., far better than our bed!”
So off we started on our trek, just as Robin was returning,
“Come on, hurry up” he cried “As the Barbecues are burning.”

We jumped down from the wooden groyne, safely we did land.
But managed to get a faceful, of that blasted flying SAND.
“This is b . . . . . . ridiculous.” I said, my mouth now full of grit.
Bob said, “We’ve come to enjoy ourselves, stop whinging and just sit.”

I spread the blanket on the SAND, which we held down with stones,
The wind was really blowing cold, it went right through my bones!
“Now hand the meat to me “ said Bob, “So that I can cook.”
“Meanwhile you prepare the rest, - stop giving me that look.”

As the SAND was flying in my face, I turned from the sea and sun.
And saw the young girls playing, - they were having lots of fun.
“Bully for them.” I thought to myself, as I tried to stop the SAND,
From getting in our salad, but it was ‘getting out of hand’.

I noticed Len and Judy, were struggling just like me,
David and Kate were struggling too, not to mention young Toby.
Bob finally returned to me, cooked meat sitting on a plate.
“You’ll have to keep it covered,” said I, “Here, I’ll demonstrate.”

I covered the meat with cling film, but it just would not stay on.
The SAND was flying everywhere, as the wind was very strong.
The SAND got in our salad, and smothered our cooked chicken,
I heard Bev complain of SAND, when his fingers he was lickin’.

Now Richard and Sue, were so sedate, as on their chairs they sat,
Determined to eat, as best they could, so did not stop to chat.
Roger and Jane were eating SAND, (they were with their family),
Laughing with the adults, whilst entertaining young Ashley.

Well, it really was impossible to keep the SAND away,
And came to the conclusion, that we’d have to eat SAND that day.
As the bloomin’ SAND was everywhere; had to keep our lips shut tight.
As every time we opened them, it was SAND that we did bite.

It wasn’t too much later, when two Lifeguards came along,
And said, “What are you doing?” “You are doing this all wrong.”
“Please put the Barbecues out.” “Not with water, please use SAND.”
“You’ll set light to the wooden groyne, that’s why we take this stand.”

Later on, they checked again to see if the SAND had done the trick,
Not sure that they were fully out, they poked them with a stick.
“You are not the first to do this”, they said through gritted teeth,
As true enough, the barbecues, had caught light underneath!

It was not long after this, I announced “I’ve had enough.”
“Of this blasted SAND in my mouth,” and walked off in a huff!
I met up with Pat Owen, (by her side was husband Tony),
They had stayed on the green, with David Charles and Rosemary.

I then approached the Coulters, all smiles upon their face.
They asked if I enjoyed the Barbecue, I said “‘Twas a disgrace.”
SANDwiches is what I ate, along with the SAND flies.
“Those damn flies were everywhere, and the SAND got in my eyes.”

“Oh dear” they said, “You should have had more sense, and stayed with us.”
“It’s a lovely spot, just a gentle breeze, we didn’t need to cuss.”
“There was no SAND to bother us, or SAND flies to be seen.”
“It’s been lovely barbecuing here, on West Wittering green.”

“So next time don’t follow Robin, just take our advice,”
“Stay on the green at Witterings, it will be no sacrifice.”
Later on that evening, as at a garage we had called,
Nigel came racing past us, so fast, I was appalled!

It looked like Jane, in the back, was praying up to Heaven,
And Wendy was trying to keep up with him, in her Austin Seven!
We finally met with them again, in the Crown at Chiddingfold.
Where we enjoyed the evening, sipping beer not quite ice cold

I have to be perfectly honest, I did enjoy that day,
Even though the SAND and SAND flies got in the b . . . . . way!
 

by Jean M Smith
August 2001

Winter Motoring©


Written for Jim & Sue Robinson when they gave Bob & Jean help
when their lights failed on their Austin Seven…


When we got home to Hindhead, from the Christmas ‘do’
And opened up the card and the poem sent from you.
We had to smile to ourselves, as it was that time of year,
When one can be silly, with the seasonal festive cheer.

I hope you realise the challenge, with yet another ode,
This time about the Austins, which we drive on the road.
It’s so good to hear from friends, in this poetic way,
It helps to cheer one up, on a cold and frosty day.

I can’t write about Austin Sevens, I don’t know what they’re about,
I only know they’re bloody cold in the winter when we are out!
I keep on giving Bob the hint, that a modern car is best,
Preferably one with a heater, so I don’t need to wear a vest!

But ‘Oh no’ it’s an Austin event, so the seven we will drive.
“It never lets us down” Bob says, “We always do arrive”
“At our destination” (even though the dynamos fail).
Thanks to our friends, that help us, through the wind and hail.


Happy New Year!

 

by Jean M Smith