Old Ted Of The Cut - Poem by Francesca Johnson
You don’t want to talk to Old Ted!
He has a bite almost as ferocious as his Rottweiler.
People give him a wide berth as they pass
His rotting old narrowboat,
Rusting and uncared for.
Just like Old Ted.
Blackened portholes adorn the sides
And a collection of old pieces of metal
Lie gathering dust and cobwebs
On his stern deck.
He emerges into the sunshine
At regular intervals
To move pieces about and clutter up
Addressed with a “Good morning”
Old Ted will look right through you,
With mad eyes and down-turned mouth
And mumble some obscenity,
His dirty skin and grubby grey clothes
Making the passer-by move more quickly
Stepping gingerly past the thick-necked dog,
As quietly as they can.
Seen only to leave when hunger gets the better of him
Or to urinate in the bushes
Old Ted is left alone.
Was he ever someone’s son?
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