Monday, 20 February 2012


a poem by Richard Cleaver

The old man's shed is a haven, for jam jars and junk you would say,
But nothing the old man would part with, he wouldn't throw nothing away.

A big rusty bike and a mower, a dartboard on the back of the door,
Some pots and some pans, an old watering can and shavings all over the floor.

An old chopping block that had seen plenty of work,some old tins of paint and some bags,
Some jars with goodness knows what inside and a cupboard stuffed brimful with rags.

Rusty old nails and a pot full of screws, some bulbs that were 'well on the way',
A smelly old hat and an old cricket bat and a pushchair that had seen better days.

A swap and a scythe with dull blades well worn, a crook that was crafted by hand,
A lumberjacks saw with no handle and granite hard bags of old sand.

Inflammable liquids, poison for rats and a smell that was best not to mention,
A pile of machines, some the likes never seen, awaiting the masters invention.

Plenty of string and some wire, a bag full of well rotted dung,
A demi john full of ancient white wine, sealed with an old rubber bung.

If the shed by chance you would visit, in darkness you'd stumble and fall,
No light bulb was ever present, it was nicked for use in the hall.