Uncle Tom
by Jim

A little tanned man in a thick overcoat,
Red and gold scarf about his throat,
Strong brown boots upon his feet.
Whistling, he goes down the street.

On his head perches a little corduroy hat,
As he drives around town with his blood mare and flat.

Every so often you’ll hear him cry,
Telling folks the things he desires to buy.
Any old rags, glass bottles and jars,
Any old pianos or scrap motor cars.

Mondays it’s the cattle mart,
That’s where he can be seen.
Bargaining and dealing,
With a mind both shrewd and keen.

Tuesdays you will see him,
With a dark fell mare and rolley.
Selling fruits and vegetables,
To all the housewives jolly.

Wednesdays you’ll find him,
Down at his allotment.
Tending to his ponies,
Till his hearts content.

Thursdays and Fridays,
Are the days for wet fish.
Cod, Haddocks or Kippers,
Cockles and Muscles a penny a dish.

Sunday it’s firewood,
Or perhaps a load or two of muck.
And every night of the week,
He’s in the Mucky Duck.

He’s known to all the housewives,
Children each and everyone.
Not as scrap man, fruit man or fish man,
But just as kind old Uncle Tom.

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