ramblings and things
1,300,665 poems read
Billy Bulson's farm
My mam used to clean at Billy Bulson's farm
A magical place of mystery and charm
With geese that cackled and hissed and every day
Without my mam I'd have run away
As they charged with flapping wings
I was really scared of those fierce big things
With their open beaks and lowered necks
It really hurt if you got a peck
But through the flock and into that house of joy
Where I was treated like their own little boy
A passage was guarded by a stuffed dog fox
Watching the world from his glass walled box
I knew he watched with his beady eye
And I always walked respectfully by
Out in the orchard with their daughter Jill
Amazingly we were never ill
Stuffing our faces with fruit on the ground
Fallen from the trees growing all around
Apples and pears and plums and cherries
In the kitchen garden currants and berries
Once a week was butter making day
Mrs Bulson would skim cream from whey
Then pour the best in her electric churn
Driven by a rubber belt to make it turn
Producing yellow butter so fresh and creamy
I can taste it still - so soft and spready
She'd shape it all into little square pats
With a pair of special wooden bats
Sometimes there was a little pat for me
To carry it home and eat with our tea
They still had Shires working on the crops
Those old boys just never seemed to stop
I can still feel the thrill deep inside
That first time Billy Bulson let me ride
Holding me on that Shire's back
As it plodded its powerful track
Turning the potatoes out of the land
To be grasped by the picker's hands
The more they picked the more their pay
Paid by the bag not by the day
Close my eyes and I'm back there still
Guzzling the fruit with my friend Jill
My mam used to clean at Billy Bulson's farm
A magical place of mystery and charm
A magical place of mystery and charm
With geese that cackled and hissed and every day
Without my mam I'd have run away
As they charged with flapping wings
I was really scared of those fierce big things
With their open beaks and lowered necks
It really hurt if you got a peck
But through the flock and into that house of joy
Where I was treated like their own little boy
A passage was guarded by a stuffed dog fox
Watching the world from his glass walled box
I knew he watched with his beady eye
And I always walked respectfully by
Out in the orchard with their daughter Jill
Amazingly we were never ill
Stuffing our faces with fruit on the ground
Fallen from the trees growing all around
Apples and pears and plums and cherries
In the kitchen garden currants and berries
Once a week was butter making day
Mrs Bulson would skim cream from whey
Then pour the best in her electric churn
Driven by a rubber belt to make it turn
Producing yellow butter so fresh and creamy
I can taste it still - so soft and spready
She'd shape it all into little square pats
With a pair of special wooden bats
Sometimes there was a little pat for me
To carry it home and eat with our tea
They still had Shires working on the crops
Those old boys just never seemed to stop
I can still feel the thrill deep inside
That first time Billy Bulson let me ride
Holding me on that Shire's back
As it plodded its powerful track
Turning the potatoes out of the land
To be grasped by the picker's hands
The more they picked the more their pay
Paid by the bag not by the day
Close my eyes and I'm back there still
Guzzling the fruit with my friend Jill
My mam used to clean at Billy Bulson's farm
A magical place of mystery and charm
Comment On This Poem ---
Billy Bulson`s farm
Billy Bulson`s farm