top
title
div
Fletcher
Fletcher
 
div
 
BANDSMAN FIGG
by
Cyril Fletcher

This is the tale of Bandsman Figg
Whose Army cap was much too big,
And to his great embarrassment
Hid half his face where e'er he went,
Which cramped his style, you'll understand,
When playing cymbals in the band.
One day with temper sadly frayed
Rejoined the band upon parade,
And with his face in cloth enshrined
Marched off in dudgeon, three parts blind.
Now as the band marched up a hill
This khaki shroud slipped lower still,
And Figg, each hand in cymbal sling,
Could not adjust the perishing thing.
Quite suddenly the band turned right
And swiftly vanished out of sight,
And bandsman Figg, sad to relate,
Toiled on in solitary state,
His cymbals making so much noise
He didn't miss the other boys.
He trudged alone for several miles,
Down ditches, lanes, and over stiles,
Till red efface and slightly damp
He barged into a nudist camp.
Where angry inmates by the score
Crowded around him in the raw.
But all their rude remarks were drowned
By Figg's earsplitting cymbal sound,
And those who tried to muscle in
Retired with bruised and broken skin,
With smarting ears and swollen beaks,
And cymbal marks upon their cheeks.
The drama ended suddenly
When Figg collided with a tree,
And lurching back on the rebound,
Fell semi-conscious to the ground.
He woke to find himself undressed
Apart from cap and woollen vest,
And so he took the homeward path,
With a cymbal held both fore and aft.
 
div
Base
Top
 
 
Return to
' CYRIL FLETCHER '
Menu
 
div
 
Monologues Home
Music Hall Home
The Forum
Pencil Portraits
Pedro Postcards
Amazon Store
 
div
 
CDCD
 
CDCD
 
CDCD
 
CD
 
div
nav-bot