“Heysham?”

“Heysham?”

“Where is Heysham?” I asked.

“On the A589,

betwixt Middleton and Morecombe, Eric!” you replied.

“My name’s not ‘Eric’ I spoke,

with a recollection of the past

I remembered the joke,

paper bag, throwing a ‘nothing’ into the air –

I knew it was a ‘nothing’

because it wasn’t there –

and then catching it in the paper bag

with a ‘thwick!’ as it was caught –

even though it was naught.

“In Lancashire, ‘oop North!’ “

was your continued information,

your two-penny worth.

Between the sea on one side,

and the sea on the other,

to the left hand side,

not far from my brother,

where he has a place,

in Heaton, tha knows;

it’s grand, and it’s sturdy,

but cold when it snows –

and that’s just Heysham.”

I wondered why

I

would go to a place like that;

perhaps it has shops –

I could buy a new hat,

or maybe that’s where my family came from,

I could trace back me roots,

perhaps it has shops –

I could purchase some boots.

Anyway, to Heysham I must go;

and, with a little luck, perhaps it won’t snow;

I’ll find me ancestors

dig up me rellies;

and perhaps there’s a shop,

where I could buy some Green Wellies.

“Can I go now?” said the man who had been telling me stuff.

“Yes.” I replied, “Thank you, but you’ve now said quite enough.”

And off he toddled.

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