Missing

I'm going to end up writing a book of horrific poems, I just know it- it's all the fault of someone who's just published a wonderful re write of A A Milnes' "Now we are six" retitled "Now we are sixty". I recommend it, it's hilarious. And it's filling me with all kinds of awful ideas. I apologise abjectly.  (And yet it doesn't stop me posting...)

Title: Missing
Author: Ranger


I had a brat and we had a free Saturday,
So I took my brat to Trafalgar Square
"Can't we go to Soho? Cos I don't like galleries."
And he pouted fairly quietly the whole time we were there.

So I went with my brat- my sweet, gentle brat- and I went with my
brat down to Soho square
"Can't we go to Camden? Cos you're looking now at paddles!"
And he wouldn't let me buy a thing the whole time we were there.

So I went with my brat on the tube into Camden, and we walked around
Camden through an antiques fair
"Can't we go to Covent Garden? Because old China's boring!"
And I didn't say a word, because by then I didn't dare.

So I sat my brat in a Covent Garden Cafe and I read my brat the riot act,
although he didn't care...
Because behind me was a juggler, two singers and a fire eater
So I surrendered, drank expresso, and let him stare.

So I left my brat, as he asked, to watch the juggler-
He swore he wouldn't move and he was giving quite the glare
And I went to buy some fruit from the stall in the market-
So of course when I got back, there was no brat there

I had a headache. A BRAT sized headache. And I took my headache to the
balcony by the stairs
And I looked for my brat- which I'm good at, since I practice-
But I couldn't see that blond head, not anywhere there.

So I tried in the candle shop, the chocolate shop, the music shop,
I even tried the soap shop out of sheer despair
(I knew it was unlikely, because soap is somewhat taboo
And a thing he'll only shop for under protest if I'm there)

I tried asking passers by- have you seen a brat?
With a bright red jacket, and curling blond hair?
Answers to 'Paul' - at least when he feels like it-
and finally an old man smiled and pointed me down the stairs.

And THERE was my brat, with his eyes nearly circular, sitting on the
flagstones with a fixed and longing stare
Alongside a string quartet, playing something complex,
And I wondered why I hadn't known of course that he'd be there

And he glanced around and smiled when I sat down beside him
With no sense of time, just glad that I was there,
And he turned back to the music and continued hardly breathing
And I looked around the market place at Covent Garden Square.

I'm sorry for the people who don't get dragged to Soho
And I'm sorry for the people who're allowed to look at paddles
And I'm sorry for the people who know just where their partners are
Because they don't have a brat and busy Saturdays to share.