POLLY AT THE PURPLE PARROT PUB
Posted: Wed Jan 11, 2012 7:40 pm
Just a bit of nonsense I wrote when I was bored but thought Heather might like it . To give it the criteria to fit into Australia Bush Poetry Polly was an Aussie sheila from Woolloomooloo and was backpacking around England trying to make a quid 
It is also known as
The Maid of Cholmondeley
(which I have been told by my Mum is pronounced Chumley
)
She turned in disgust and walked back down the path
past the wall which the ivy ensnared
in the shadow of turreted wedged crenulations
where once stood defenders who cared.
But now all the walls were just crumbled reminders
of times that had gone and long passed.
The path that she trod in old shoes badly shod
led to portcullis captured by grass.
She walked on past oyster shells, lifeboats and boxes
and nets draped ungainly on poles,
past untidy children, and rambling roses
through cow parsley paddocks pockmarked with mole holes.
Crossed the wet weather stream where a moat would have been
saw a bicycle built for destruction
and pondered the waste of an hour of her time
due to incorrect detailed instruction.
The ad in the paper had said that a maid
was required for the summer to wait
on the tables of visitors at the café
that stood outside the old castle gate.
So she’d thought to apply for she knew the place well
and some history she could impart
to the visitors thronging – but she got the time wrong.
She’d not be serving the coffee and tart.
Her disconsolate steps let her back down the hill
past the wall which the ivy ensnared
And she saw the sign swinging, the big parrot winging
in flight - not the least bit impaired.
A bar maid was she in the small town of Cholmondeley
and as Polly she’d always been known
but now she was called fourpence by everyone
and the joke was one she had outgrown.
Polly from the Purple Parrot Pub was she
or four p’s – fourpence in the old money
and they rolled in the aisles as they shouted her name
but Polly never once found it funny.
Which was why she had thought that a maid she might be
serving tea and cream cake to the tourists.
She would upgrade herself to the maid of Cholmondely
and to hell with the naysayers and purists.
Maureen Clifford © 01/12
It is also known asThe Maid of Cholmondeley
(which I have been told by my Mum is pronounced Chumley
)She turned in disgust and walked back down the path
past the wall which the ivy ensnared
in the shadow of turreted wedged crenulations
where once stood defenders who cared.
But now all the walls were just crumbled reminders
of times that had gone and long passed.
The path that she trod in old shoes badly shod
led to portcullis captured by grass.
She walked on past oyster shells, lifeboats and boxes
and nets draped ungainly on poles,
past untidy children, and rambling roses
through cow parsley paddocks pockmarked with mole holes.
Crossed the wet weather stream where a moat would have been
saw a bicycle built for destruction
and pondered the waste of an hour of her time
due to incorrect detailed instruction.
The ad in the paper had said that a maid
was required for the summer to wait
on the tables of visitors at the café
that stood outside the old castle gate.
So she’d thought to apply for she knew the place well
and some history she could impart
to the visitors thronging – but she got the time wrong.
She’d not be serving the coffee and tart.
Her disconsolate steps let her back down the hill
past the wall which the ivy ensnared
And she saw the sign swinging, the big parrot winging
in flight - not the least bit impaired.
A bar maid was she in the small town of Cholmondeley
and as Polly she’d always been known
but now she was called fourpence by everyone
and the joke was one she had outgrown.
Polly from the Purple Parrot Pub was she
or four p’s – fourpence in the old money
and they rolled in the aisles as they shouted her name
but Polly never once found it funny.
Which was why she had thought that a maid she might be
serving tea and cream cake to the tourists.
She would upgrade herself to the maid of Cholmondely
and to hell with the naysayers and purists.
Maureen Clifford © 01/12
Just a bit of silliness but sometimes that is all I am good for.