My name is Plonker, and I am a pot and I have now been
thrown on the compost plot. I have a busted base and a chip
on my rim, my chances of working again are very slim. I have
lived in this garden for many a year and all that surrounds me
has become very dear. Everyone was like a family until the
Blueie's moved in and that's when we Cottie's started a din.
The clan of Bluie's just thought they were it, but they were just
like us full of s-t. Please excuse my expression but they had to
be taught a lesson. They thought they were to good for the like's
of us, but we all stuck together and kicked up a fuss.
The noise was horrendous it was like a third world war;
we had the cracks to prove it and there were chips galore.
We nicked named them The Blueie's because they were
glazed blue ceramic, that stuck up lot they thought they were
dynamic.Then in came the winter with frost all around and
those frozen Blueie's had to be lifted of the ground. They were
wrapped in a sack then dumped in the shed, now it was our
turn to laugh because they might have well been dead.
Now poor old Cotty has a nasty crack, the master won't move
him because he suffers with his back. Now Cotty holds a plant
that is totally pot bound the roots have come out and fed into the
ground. He won't last much longer he's on his way out,
what on earth will happen if we get a drought.
Now the last of my story belongs to Gerry, now he came home
via the Dunkirk Ferry. He sits in the porch with his mind full of
wonder, when he was proud to be a bedroom 'Goes Under'
The broken pots the mistress uses again, we will still be in
the garden but life won't be the same.A piece of me will
cover the hole in a new pot, topped up with fresh manure from
the compost plot.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem