Books, Comics and Wooden Guns

Where is the scruffy malcontent,
With runny nose and plimsoles rent,
Holidaying in caravan or tent
At seaside sites, on the coast of Kent
When time, it seemed, was better spent
And life and love were innocent
Though knees were permanently ‘skint’
Shorts, no protection from cement
Or games that he could still invent?
Where is that boy?

Where is that book that once he read
And kept with stacks beneath the bed,
Where Biggles flew and often bled
But never seemed to end up dead?
Just William was a hero bred,
With school cap perched upon his head
Who kept the neighbourhood in dread!
Destruction planted, quickly spread
Like frogs caught under tyre thread
Where is that book

Where are the comics that he knew,
Where soldiers fought and aces flew?
Victor, Hornet, Hotspur too,
A ‘boys’ own’ feast of daring do.
Alf Tupper always did come through
‘Tuff of the track’ a real true blue!
Cowardly ‘Cadman’ he wished for you,
A horrible death that you might rue,
Using your batman for false accrue.
Where is that comic?

Looking back, I must admit,
I had the very best of it.
No PC games or Nintendo;
A book or ball was all to show.
With wooden guns and stories read,
I’d play till dark, then head for bed.
I feel today it’s going awry
My kids so seldom see the sky
And laugh when told of bygone days
When fun was found in simpler ways