Gert Strydom

Gold Star - 34,965 Points (03 April 1964 / Johannesburg, South Africa)

A Ducktail Called Stan - Poem by Gert Strydom

There was a man they called Stan the ducktail,
a well build biker with very long hair,
his real name could have been Sam
or Dick or Dirk
no one really still knows
but he carried chains
and knuckle-dusters
that he used as fighting tools
(and sometimes his bare fists did the thing)
whenever a game of cards, pool, snooker
or even darts did not go straight
he took a swing

and rumour had it that he had even
knocked some cops through shop windows,
had send them straight to hospital
he was a hippie in the time
that free love and marijuana
was in some circles acceptable

and this bloke had many friends,
a gang full of them
that used to party with him
with chicks near Brakpan dam
drinking champagne, beer and cane,
or whatever liquor
they could lay their hands on

and to all the schoolboys Stan
was the man, the archetype
of what they wanted to become
what they used to call:
“a mean fighting machine, ”

and some parents did not want them
to associate with what they called
ducktail scum, even went as far
as warning the kids in the Sunday school
against Stan, hippies and ducktails in general
and to live a honest respectable life
and held a prayer meeting
where they begged God to intervene
in the life of Stan
and to this day they believe that He did

and one day just to have some fun
Stan was breaking shop windows
in the main street, waiting on the police
to come and meet him
with drawn batons and fists
and the big well build expected six
were hanging back
and a young lean cop walked right up to him,
tried to make an arrest
and the rest is history.

Stan smiled at the young man
lifted his huge right fist,
but it went right over the cop’s head
and he got one hell of a punch
on his own jaw instead,
was knocked right from his feet,
landed unconscious in the street,
waked up cuffed in a police cell
and it was totally beyond him
that a small lean policeman
had given him a beating

and it was the last trouble
that the town, the police and people
in the local hotels and bars
ever had with Stan
and what had become of him
no one knows.

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Poem Submitted: Friday, May 27, 2011

Poem Edited: Friday, May 27, 2011

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