*
Here comes Johnny Walter, the old geezer on the bike
When he waves and says “Hello there” there’s not much not to like
He is kind and he is funny, and he’s full of Wiltshire wit
He remembers everybody’s name and gets about a bit
For a man of nearly eighty his humour is quite dry
Never underestimate the twinkle in his eye
A Moonraker, a character, an ancient Briton, he
Who reckons that his ancestors lived in Avebury
A child of New Park Street, who heard and smelled and saw
The weary trains of soldiers marching homewards from the war
Who, when he was a teenager, learned how to spin a spool
And hung out at The Palace, and was far too cool for school
Imagine all the movies that he showed throughout the years
How he moved an auditorium to laughter, shock and tears
Fifty years of pictures, all those newsreels and Bond
Folk walking home from Psycho, getting spooked out by the pond
Folk snogging in the back row, swapping hormones, spit and smoke
The porn, the pot, the popcorn, and the icecream, and the coke
Johnny hung out with the Mods, and took a scooter trip to France
And liked to watch the ladies, with a beer, at a dance
Until he married Margaret; ‘twas as his father said
“If you take her to the bedroom, you will end up in the bed”
Johnny didn’t mind at all when she with child fell
First came little baby Michael, and then Carolyn as well
And the cottage, out in Cheverell, where flowed a little stream
Happy years of family, a rural rosy dream
Until the day that Margaret was taken far too soon
Leaving Johnny on his own, to marvel at the chilly moon
He kept calm, and carried on, ‘cos he’s a solid sort of guy
Kids to bring up, work to do and not much time to cry
But to this day he misses her, puts flowers on her grave
One could call him stoical, or practical, or brave
Yet in his quiet moments, sometimes, silent tears fall
Better to have loved, he thinks, than not have loved at all
Kept calm and carried on, and bore his lot with love and grace
Always greeting friends with a bright smile on his face
He stirred the jam at Easterton, rang all the village bells
He filled the air with music and with sweetened fruity smells
He’s still batty in a belfry, still a jammy sort of cove
You’ll see him with his faithful dog, with whom he likes to rove
You might think he’s a boy racer, in his go fast stripy car
He knows who’s who, and who does what, and where wild flowers are
He has grandchildren, great grandchildren, a garden, and some fish
He has the sort of life for which most decent folk would wish
He is full of Wiltshire wisdom, in a quiet sort of way
You’ll see him thinking carefully about what he should say
When he meets you in the street, and doffs his syrup and his hat
And asks after your family, your garden, and your cat
He has some little sayings, gleaned from years of Wiltshire lore
But doesn’t always understand what certain words are for
He can sometimes drop a clanger, with no malice or intent
And once he even asked me what ‘bisexual’ meant
“We’re all different” he says, “it just don’t do to be the same
Tubs should rest on their own bottoms, for the best chance at the game”
He is a loyal friend to many, and a much belovéd Dad
Just the kindest lovely man that Wiltshire ever had
‘Tis true that good things come in some unusual disguises
Like dear old Johnny Walter, gentle spirit of Devizes
*
by Gail
gailfromdevizes 