I worked as a Bournemouth taxi driver for over 10yrs, meeting exciting unusual people and sometimes wanting to kill one or two (figure of speech). As a Cabbie you have 2 seconds to decide whether you should take a person or not, 99% were not refused. I have met people from all walks of life; I have had experiences that I care to mention and others that I should not mention. Once you open your cab door it gives a different meaning to the word ‘knowledge’. I enjoyed my time behind the wheel and these poems relate some of those experiences.
Boy Racer
Look at my motor and the way she steers.
Impressed, should be, these are my wheels,
No amount of money, I cut no deals.
Alloys, spoiler all the rage,
Can't half spin, cost me a wage.
Go fast stripes, it looks its best,
Let's hammer it, give it a test.
Faster, blast her as we move,
Performance, perfection and so smooth.
Round to the left, if you please,
This car moves with so much ease.
Carve him up!! Get off the road,
Mines immaculate and packs a load.
Stereo on, music a blare,
Try and keep up, if you dare.
Sweets and comic his favorite treat,
As he legs it across the street.
His parents, shocked and badly shaken,
When they were told his life had been taken.
Cabbie Gerry
Poor old Gerry, hackney number sixty two,
He likes to save his pennies, a bargain or few.
For his daily paper, an idea in his brain,
He would go into the station, hop onto a train.
People leave their papers, after their long trip,
So jumping on the train, Gerry he would nip.
One day, he was searching, moments to spare,
The train was in a hurry, it didn't seem to care.
So off it went, a' thundering down the track,
With poor old Gerry, stuck right in the back.
All the cabbies waved, a smile and a stare,
But now they're wondering, did he pay his fare?
The Cabbie
Sitting in my cab waiting at a rank,
The inside was warm, got fuel in my tank.
Minding my business, reading a book,
A tap at my window, my breathe it took.
A little old lady, her trolley in tow,
Into my boot her baggage will go.
Jumped out of my cab to open the back,
Only a trolley, not much to stack.
Her face went strange to my dread,
The colours she turned, white, blue, then red.
Then she wobbled as if to faint,
Oh no, she’s dying, please say she ain’t
She opened her mouth and began to speak,
In her shock, it came out a squeak.
You’re the taxi driver they should ban,
You’ve trapped my fingers you stupid man.
Sitting in my cab waiting at a rank,
The inside was warm, got fuel in my tank.
Minding my business, reading a book,
A tap at my window, my breathe it took.
A little old lady, her trolley in tow,
Into my boot her baggage will go.
Jumped out of my cab to open the back,
Only a trolley, not much to stack.
Her face went strange to my dread,
The colours she turned, white, blue, then red.
Then she wobbled as if to faint,
Oh no, she’s dying, please say she ain’t
She opened her mouth and began to speak,
In her shock, it came out a squeak.
You’re the taxi driver they should ban,
You’ve trapped my fingers you stupid man.
God Bless Babies.
I remember the time, 4 ante meridiem
An innocent voyeur, my eyes did glide
The grass a’ flattened, a rustling bush
Oblivious surroundings, gathering stride.
Where was my little one conceived?
As they heaved away their fruitful wink!
Shocked, but then smiling to myself
Home on the front room carpet, I think!
God bless babies of the quilt and sheets
God bless babies of the bathtub water
God bless babies from the fireside rug
God remind me to lock up my daughter.
The Boring Rank.
I wasn’t always a cabbie!
I had other jobs before!
As I sit for hire –
And I dwell on all.
At first I was a squaddie!
I served HM the Queen,
Then I was a welder!
Bright flashes could be seen.
Then I was a DJ!
The discs they were a’ spinning,
Now I look upon a cabbie,
He’s bored but he is grinning.
Old George sits in his cab,
He thinks no one can see,
With a finger up his nostril,
He’s picking for you and me!
What’s the time Gordon?
“What’s the time Gordon” he looks upon his wrist,
He stands outside the nightclubs with a wiggle and a twist.
He’s always being given and never seems to beg,
His footballs scarves and anorak have never seen a peg.
“What’s the time Gordon” he sometimes gets a fright,
His hair and beard unkept and a greyer shade of white.
He visits a restaurant by looking through the glass,
And warm his hands with the candles as the clubbers pass.
“What’s the time Gordon” to his wrist, he looks down,
He always creates a smile as he shuffles round the town.
Some think he’s a tramp or a dirty old man,
But many think he’s funny and become his biggest fan.
“What’s the time Gordon” as the youths pass him by,
“Nearly time for me bus” he gives a little cry.
For as they laugh and smile, he’s gained another notch,
For everybody knows, he hasn’t got a watch.
“What’s the time Gordon” his body clock knows when,
He’s off to catch his bus, right on half past ten.
A character of Bournemouth with a lively soul,
He’s always bored at home and finds it really dull.