The Broadcaster Poem by Billy Bennett

Hello everybody, hell-frightfully-ho,
Just tune your radios all in;
I am the gent with the Oxford accent
BBC Home Service calling.

I'm a varsity man-you can tell by my voice;
All through Oxford I've been, on a chara.
I was brought up at Eton till I was fourteen,
Then was eaten and brought up at Harrow!

First of all there's a SOS, it's from Banbury Cross:
Will the housemaid employed at the vicar's,
Who ran away dressed in a blouse and a hat,
Return-and he'll give her-her wages.

Here's SOS, number two. Will Angus McCue
Return to his wife at Dundee;
For six months or more she's been at death's door,
And the lodger's gone off with the key.

Will old Widow North, who buried her fourth,
Return home, please, quickly to Leeds.
They've found an old man with a watering can
Who is anxious to water her weeds.

To-day at the organ we've Tommy O'Morgan,
Be prepared for a bit of a shindy.
It's the first time he's played, and I'm rather afraid
Like the organ he's going to be windy.

For bird-loving men we've a talk on the hen
By the poultry expert, Mr. Brewster.
If you do what he says you'll find the game pays,
And you'll even get eggs from the rooster.

French lessons for schools are by Monsieur Jules,
And all of you know what his French is
It's nice and refined-not a bit like the kind
The Tommies use out in the trenches!

On His Master's Voice we've a record that's choice
It's a Welshman who sings 'Men of Harlech.'
Then we'll have 'True to Death' on His Master's breath
By an Italian who's been eating garlic.

From the Queen's Hall to-night there's a feast of delight,
On this orchestra there's no improving.
Sir Tom's got the knack, he won't let the band slack
You can bet Beecham makes 'em keep moving!

Then we have men of mark, like Mozart and Bach,
The foundations of music to foster;
And from Poet's Corner there's blue-pencil Warner
In 'There was a young lady from Gloucester.'

For his afternoon call here comes Henry Hall,
With his stick in his hand he's just capered;
His crooner they say will be better to-day,
For he's just had his tonsils sandpapered.

His girl crooner, she sings 'The Song of the Flea,'
And it makes all his guests feel much prouder,
For at this merry meeting we've got Mr. Keating,
Assisted by Bob Martin's powder.

Just after your teas we've a talk upon bees
By the biggest bee expert in Britain;
He's been stung twice-today-just where I can't say,
But to broadcast he's standing, not sitting!

The next turn by the way hasn't turned up to-day,
So we'll put on some records as fill-ins;
If you think you've been done, you can all take a run
What the hell do you want for ten shillings?

The wind's going to blow and we're going to have snow
From the Mersey right down to the Severn;
And as for the rest 'twill be dry in the west,
And wet in the pubs till eleven.

There's been a depression in Wigan and Shoreditch,
In Chorlton-come-quick and Pwllheli;
There's another depression in Aunt Lizzie's chest
Where the mangle caught her in the-elbow.

And now our concluding item
Is going to make me sick and you sick:
Some Hanley musicians, all very big pots,
Are going to relay chamber music.

I think that their music's by Handel,
And whether I'm wrong or I'm right,
And whether they've handles or whether they haven't,
Good night, everybody, good night!