David Lewis Paget

Gold Star - 9,373 Points (22.11.1944 / Nottingham, England/live in Australia)

Peter Pan - Poem by David Lewis Paget

He'd buried his head in manuscripts
And books for twenty years,
He'd kept himself to himself had never
Ventured down the stairs,
His meals were brought on a silver tray
His clothes were laundered and pressed,
No callers came to his stately rooms
To invade his hours of rest.

He'd turned his back on the world out there
When young, and his sister went,
His parents left the estate to him
Though most of the money was spent,
He had no interest in state affairs,
No more in the works of man,
Looked rarely out of the windows
Of his mansion, Maison Grande.

He studied the force of nature,
Tempests, storms, tornado files,
Read books on the brontosaurus,
Mammoths, raptors, crocodiles,
The only women he knew of,
Little girls like his sister Ann,
He lived like a boy forever
In his mind, like Peter Pan.

He didn't hear when the Bailiffs
Took his furniture from below,
Cleaned out the candelabra
Caused his silver trays to go,
Ripped up the hallway carpet
Took the Louis the XVI chairs,
And finally came up knocking
When they exhausted the loot downstairs.

He stood in shock when they carried off
His desk of Baltic Pine,
Ripped the books from the shelves and
Took the last of his stock of wine,
He saw the bills he'd neglected when
The cook came up to quit,
Her owed her three months wages and
That was the least of it.

The man from the real estate came up,
A man called Arty Hook,
The name sat deep in his memory
Had he read it in some old book?
The Maison Grande would have to be sold
Could he please vacate it now,
The outside world burst into his head
Ran furrows across his brow.

His sister came to lead him away,
He went confused, like a child,
He didn't know what he'd have to do
But his thoughts were running wild,
There were people here, and people there
Each wanting a piece of him,
But he had nothing to offer them,
The future was looking grim.

Ann had a friend called Wendy who
Came round to see to his needs,
The first real woman he'd seen up close
Since before his early teens,
He noticed the perfume that she wore,
And watched her walk with a sway,
The child that had lived in the Maison Grande
Was slowly drifting away.

He felt her breath caressing his cheek
When she leaned in close to speak,
And sensed the draw of those ruby lips
And the softness of her cheek,
Her body warmth seemed to comfort him
When they sat on the old divan,
‘Til the night she said, in her negligée,
‘It's time to make you a man! '

They called around to the real estate
Next day, and collared Hook,
‘We won't be selling the Maison Grande
You can take it off your book.
For Wendy's paid off the debtors, and
We're planning to move back in,
I remember you, and the crocodile,
You can try but you'll never win! '

He got a job at the Uni with
The knowledge he had in store,
And made his mark as a tutor
Teaching English Literature,
While Wendy used all her talents to
Remodel the Maison Grande,
And he excelled with his students
When he was teaching Peter Pan.

30 November 2012

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, November 29, 2012

Poem Edited: Thursday, November 29, 2012

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