THE SWORD IN THE STONE
by
Stan Brown

  Just up the street, near the cemetery gates,
There's a shop that sells owt yer could want.
Well, that's if yer needed a left 'anded leg,
Or a pole for shovin' yer punt.

It's called The Emporium Bric a Brac Shop,
That's a right fancy word meanin' junk.
The shelves were all packed wi' specimen jars,
Stuffed budgies an' great wooden trunks.

Now they didn't sell much, well they sold nowt at all,
'cos everyone sort o' walked past.
There wasn't much need for an old box o' Spam,
Or a vest from the war before t' last.

Then, las' Thursday it were, this young lad, 'e walked in,
"Is there owt that yer've got for a tanner?
It's mams birthday," 'e sez. "I need t' get 'er a prez."
"Yer can 'ave out that yer want." The bloke stammered

'E'd been there fifty odd year, an' 'e remembered right clear,
Sellin' summat t' Mrs McGraw.
She'd 'ad it on tick, a flag on a stick,
So she could wave it at th'end o' the war.
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