Barnstable Boggs. Poem by Kevin Hulme

Barnstable Boggs, Barnstable Boggs, was there ever a soul like Barnstable Boggs? His house is a wreck an affront to the eye, the windows are troubled with grime. The roof in its way is in upmost decay, nowhere is it's equal you'll find. His excuse for a door is a shambles and no more, the hinges have rotted with age, and the last time the garden had seen a sharp blade, was when Olivier last took to the stage. The wallpapers torn, how the furnitures worn, and the carpets "Club Med" for the mites. The most that can be said, about Barnstable's bed, is the wonder it can last through the night. His clothes they are frayed, for the years have been payed, by instalments of hardship and stress, his shoes full of holes, and his socks are so old, they resemble Liz Hurley's old dress. Breakfast and Tea are what's leftover from lunch, as Dinner and Supper are united in Brunch. He works from first dawn to the closure of day, in a Labouring role for a pittance of Pay. Barnstable Boggs, Barnstable Boggs, was there ever a soul like Barnstable Boggs? So what did I spy just the other night, stood standing in shadows deep? Boggs and a lady friend both hand in hand, a Rendezvous to keep. And so it hit me, hard, and my heart began to sigh. That Barnstable with sweetheart had now found love, which made him more fortunate and richer than I.