THE TALE OF BISHOP'S BED

She was born in the furnaces of the Motherland when Vicky was the boss;
Cast of the finest Sheffield steel and finished with a gloss.
Shipped out to the colonies, a fine bosom in which to slumber;
This is the tale of that fine old bed which lives on with ancient grandeur.

From where upon George got it, there ain't a living man who knows;
For all of those who've owned it, have all turned up their mortal toes.
Legend has it that as George Bishop lay dying on his bed;
His mate, old Alec, knew that George would soon be dead.

"George" he said "old fellow, when you've finished with the cot";
"Do you think that I could have it, when you've shuffled from this lot?"
Well after George had cashed his chips, Alec told of the deal that had been stuck;
With morose look upon his face, that George in a final gesture had heightened Alec's luck.

So Alec grabbed the bed from Mrs Bishop, as respectful as he could;
He hurried off with the grand old cot to camp like a log of wood.
In time it was that Alec followed George to the Pearly Gates;
To drink there at the tavern and to yarn with long lost mates.

It was to young bobby that the ownership was past;
And old Bob that lay there on it until he too had breathed his last.
The list of owners may have shuffled into their earthen plot,
The generations keep on coming and now it is young Alex who's the owner of the cot.

©Copyright July 2006 by A.R. "Lex" Fullarton