Camping No More
Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2012 9:31 am
Camping No More
© Stephen Whiteside 23.0.2012
I bought some new tent pegs all made out of glass,
For in the shop window they looked to have class.
“They’ll look neat and natty arranged ’round my tent.”
I threw out the old ones all rusty and bent.
The topsoil was solid. I gave one two hits
With my mallet. Alas, the glass shattered to bits.
I reached for another. Result was the same.
I didn't have time for this pitiful game.
That night in my bag I felt quite ill at ease,
As all the tent’s corners flapped hard in the breeze.
I woke feeling grumpy and drove into town,
And entered the shop with a well furrowed frown.
“These tent peg are useless. They shatter and split.
They cannot withstand even one little hit
With my hammer. I’d like all my money refunded.”
“I’ll not give you nothing!” the shopkeeper thundered.
‘You knew when you bought them the pegs were all glass.
Get out of my shop now, and finish this farce.”
I was taken aback at his manner so rude.
His judgement seemed biased, unreasoned and skewed.
I showed him my fingers all caked with dried blood.
His haughty demeanour came down with a thud.
“I can’t give you money, but take this instead.”
He offered a mallet, with rubbery head.
It was big and impressive. I felt I had won.
It looked very useful, and also quite fun.
I found my old tent pegs, the ones I’d thrown out,
Placed one in the topsoil, and gave it a clout.
Alas, nothing happened. The soft rubber head
Of the mallet gave way to the tent peg instead.
Over and over I struck with intent.
No way would this mallet drive pegs for my tent.
Another night cold as my tent corners flapped,
Then I drove into town with a strategy mapped.
I strode through the shop with a gleam in my eye.
“This mallet would not kill a mozzie or fly!
It’s utterly useless. Hand over my cash!”
The shopkeeper fumed, and came out in a rash.
“You knew it was made out or rubber, you fool!
What did you think you would get from this tool?”
It was time then, of course, for my bold master stroke.
I showed my eyes, bloodshot, to this nasty bloke.
“Two nights without sleep, and the fault is all yours!”
He gave a fierce squint, and it caused him to pause.
Then he came over humble, and looked rather crook.
“All I can offer you now is this hook.
Anything that you place on it will dry.
Best thing about it, it hangs from the sky.”
Twice I’d been bitten. I took it with care.
It seemed like an object both precious and rare,
But should I accept it? It might be a trick,
And leave me embarrassed, with more wounds to lick.
A voice in my head said, “Don’t be so suspicious.
A hook in the sky? That’s an offer delicious.”
“I’ll take it,” I said. “You’re short tempered, but fair,”
And I strode from that shop with a satisfied air.
Alas, though, to hang it, I hadn’t the knack.
I sought for a hole in the sky - just a crack -
To wedge its back end, but it fell to the earth,
And gave my good neighbours some unexplained mirth.
Was the day just too hot? Or the breezes too strong?
I fought with that hook for the sky the day long.
Deficient humidity? Clouds up too high?
I just couldn’t get it to stay in the sky.
“I might have a lemon,” I thought to myself.
“With two really good ones, I’d fashion a shelf.
I’d hang all my crockery high in the air.
My neighbours, now laughing, would stand still and stare.”
Come sundown I gave up, and lay in my tent.
That night I slept well. I was utterly spent.
I drove back despondent next morning to town
To hand back the sky hook that always fell down.
I walked to the shopkeeper’s counter again,
And recited once more my familiar refrain.
“Please give me my money. This thing doesn’t work.
I tried it all day, and I’m now half beserk.
It’s dodgy. It’s faulty. It doesn’t hang true.
It does not the thing that you said it would do.
The front part’s all right. It’s a hook, safe and sound,
But the back does not grip. It falls straight to the ground.
I’ve wriggled it right and I’ve twisted it left.
I’ve been rough. I’ve been gentle. I’m now quite bereft
Of ideas at all. Place it low. Place it high.
This sky hook will simply not stay in the sky.”
He stood very still, in a curious way,
Until I had said all I wanted to say,
Then he gave a great shudder, and threw back his head,
And he laughed and he laughed at the things I had said.
Then he gave me my money through torrents of tears,
And said he had not had such good fun in years.
It’s very confusing. I don’t understand,
But l left with my cash firmly gripped in my hand,
And the confident air of a bloke who has won,
Who has challenged, then matched, and then outgunned a gun,
But as I drove off from that strange little store,
I vowed I would never go camping no more!
© Stephen Whiteside 23.06.2012
© Stephen Whiteside 23.0.2012
I bought some new tent pegs all made out of glass,
For in the shop window they looked to have class.
“They’ll look neat and natty arranged ’round my tent.”
I threw out the old ones all rusty and bent.
The topsoil was solid. I gave one two hits
With my mallet. Alas, the glass shattered to bits.
I reached for another. Result was the same.
I didn't have time for this pitiful game.
That night in my bag I felt quite ill at ease,
As all the tent’s corners flapped hard in the breeze.
I woke feeling grumpy and drove into town,
And entered the shop with a well furrowed frown.
“These tent peg are useless. They shatter and split.
They cannot withstand even one little hit
With my hammer. I’d like all my money refunded.”
“I’ll not give you nothing!” the shopkeeper thundered.
‘You knew when you bought them the pegs were all glass.
Get out of my shop now, and finish this farce.”
I was taken aback at his manner so rude.
His judgement seemed biased, unreasoned and skewed.
I showed him my fingers all caked with dried blood.
His haughty demeanour came down with a thud.
“I can’t give you money, but take this instead.”
He offered a mallet, with rubbery head.
It was big and impressive. I felt I had won.
It looked very useful, and also quite fun.
I found my old tent pegs, the ones I’d thrown out,
Placed one in the topsoil, and gave it a clout.
Alas, nothing happened. The soft rubber head
Of the mallet gave way to the tent peg instead.
Over and over I struck with intent.
No way would this mallet drive pegs for my tent.
Another night cold as my tent corners flapped,
Then I drove into town with a strategy mapped.
I strode through the shop with a gleam in my eye.
“This mallet would not kill a mozzie or fly!
It’s utterly useless. Hand over my cash!”
The shopkeeper fumed, and came out in a rash.
“You knew it was made out or rubber, you fool!
What did you think you would get from this tool?”
It was time then, of course, for my bold master stroke.
I showed my eyes, bloodshot, to this nasty bloke.
“Two nights without sleep, and the fault is all yours!”
He gave a fierce squint, and it caused him to pause.
Then he came over humble, and looked rather crook.
“All I can offer you now is this hook.
Anything that you place on it will dry.
Best thing about it, it hangs from the sky.”
Twice I’d been bitten. I took it with care.
It seemed like an object both precious and rare,
But should I accept it? It might be a trick,
And leave me embarrassed, with more wounds to lick.
A voice in my head said, “Don’t be so suspicious.
A hook in the sky? That’s an offer delicious.”
“I’ll take it,” I said. “You’re short tempered, but fair,”
And I strode from that shop with a satisfied air.
Alas, though, to hang it, I hadn’t the knack.
I sought for a hole in the sky - just a crack -
To wedge its back end, but it fell to the earth,
And gave my good neighbours some unexplained mirth.
Was the day just too hot? Or the breezes too strong?
I fought with that hook for the sky the day long.
Deficient humidity? Clouds up too high?
I just couldn’t get it to stay in the sky.
“I might have a lemon,” I thought to myself.
“With two really good ones, I’d fashion a shelf.
I’d hang all my crockery high in the air.
My neighbours, now laughing, would stand still and stare.”
Come sundown I gave up, and lay in my tent.
That night I slept well. I was utterly spent.
I drove back despondent next morning to town
To hand back the sky hook that always fell down.
I walked to the shopkeeper’s counter again,
And recited once more my familiar refrain.
“Please give me my money. This thing doesn’t work.
I tried it all day, and I’m now half beserk.
It’s dodgy. It’s faulty. It doesn’t hang true.
It does not the thing that you said it would do.
The front part’s all right. It’s a hook, safe and sound,
But the back does not grip. It falls straight to the ground.
I’ve wriggled it right and I’ve twisted it left.
I’ve been rough. I’ve been gentle. I’m now quite bereft
Of ideas at all. Place it low. Place it high.
This sky hook will simply not stay in the sky.”
He stood very still, in a curious way,
Until I had said all I wanted to say,
Then he gave a great shudder, and threw back his head,
And he laughed and he laughed at the things I had said.
Then he gave me my money through torrents of tears,
And said he had not had such good fun in years.
It’s very confusing. I don’t understand,
But l left with my cash firmly gripped in my hand,
And the confident air of a bloke who has won,
Who has challenged, then matched, and then outgunned a gun,
But as I drove off from that strange little store,
I vowed I would never go camping no more!
© Stephen Whiteside 23.06.2012
camping Dude