Honey Bob And The Whale

The battery-powered pump wheezes life
into the black and white plastic carcass
and the killer whale takes shape, but slowly,
giving me time to look around, particularly
at the girl with the honey-coloured bob
in tight grey jumper and jeans,
leaning over the sea wall
a yard or two from our hut.

I'm holding it between my legs to stop it blowing away,
and, as it fills, the beast bucks and jerks,
getting longer, stiffer and wider as it points right at her
fine feminine figure, set off to perfection
by the jumper, jeans, and the honey-coloured bob.

She looks out over the beach
at the castle builders, the cricketers, the frisbee tossers,
unaware that just behind her I'm struggling
with an eight-foot phallic whale
and my over-active imagination.