Just For Trevor
Trevor is a mate I met through my brother. He is also a member of the crazy Out Of Order Corner. His nickname is, Little Legs. He felt that he had been left out because other members of the group had had individual poems written about them, and he hadn’t. So Trev, this one is for you. This was read out at Trevor’s 35th birthday party. He had no idea I had written it for him, and he blushed like mad when many of his deep secrets were revealed. I didn’t feel a bit sorry for him. When I wrote this, I was very new to computers, and it was Trevor who used to go onto the Internet for me, and download stuff on Michael Ironside, (as far as I’m concerned, the sexiest man alive - that’s Michael, not Trevor!) Of course, now that I can download things for myself, I haven’t really got much use for Trevor! (Only kidding mate.) If you would like to embarrass someone at their party, why not have me write a poem for you to perform.
Just For Trevor.
By Amanda Jay Clark.
Trevor Edwin Smith
came to be,
In nineteen-sixty-four.
Little did his parents know on that day,
Of the trouble they had waiting in store.
Such a bundle of joy at first glance,
He fulfilled their dreams with great cheer.
But, they soon found he wasn’t plain sailing,
Now they curse April 12th every year.
As a young boy while playing with matches,
He once set fire to the shed.
But he didn’t find things quite so funny,
When he was spanked and sent off to bed.
He had wanted to watch the firemen,
Douse the flames with their giant hose.
Alas, the only water he saw flowing,
Was from his own eyes, and nose.
On the day that he started school,
Mum and dad thought at last, they could rest.
Though instead of becoming teachers favourite,
He in fact became teachers pest!
For our Trevor, in his infinite wisdom,
Marched right home again, showing great gall,
And announced to his frustrated parents,
That he didn’t like school at all!
"The teachers are all far too bossy,
And the kids are an absolute bore.
I’ve made my final decision,
And I’m not going there any more!"
Undeterred, Brent Schools headmistress,
Came to fetch Trevor back in her car.
She tried to be cross and chastise him,
but the whole thing was just too bizarre.
For the next few weeks they all worried,
In case Trevor made a second escape bid.
But as far as we know, he stayed there,
For all the good it did.
He didn’t learn much through the years,
In fact, he’s still totally dim.
How else do you explain the reason,
Why he pulled a food cupboard down on him?
The food hammered down hard on his head,
Right down to the dusty dregs.
For those who don’t know the full story,
That’s how he became Little Legs.
So, his nickname’s no longer a mystery,
Now I’ve told you the answer to the riddle.
He’s quite proud of his Little Legs really,
Except for the one in the middle.
If for his thirty-fifth birthday,
You’re invited to a barbecue,
Don’t turn up starving hungry,
What ever else you do.
If you do, you’ll leave disappointed,
And Trevor wont even care,
Because when you knock on his front door,
You’ll discover that he isn’t there.
It will come as a shock to his parents,
As he wont have given them a clue,
That he has arranged this party,
And invited all of you.
So spare a kind thought for the Smiths,
As they struggle to entertain,
While someone is searching for Little Legs,
A search that will end in vain.
The reason nobody will find him,
Is because he’ll have gone walkabout,
Without sending so much as a postcard.
The inexcusable lout!
No phone call to say "g’day,
I’m fine, and how are you,"
He just dines on shrimps from the bar-be,
And thick slices of kangaroo.
As he bakes in the Australian sun,
There’s no thought of London’s rain, or fog.
Not a thought for his parents, or siblings.
Not even for Ebby, the dog.
Apparently, his thoughts were for Kathryn,
Who although only fourteen,
Made Trevor’s heart run like a racehorse.
Oh yes, he was definitely keen!
The young girl was strictly hands off,
He was told in no uncertain tone.
But to this day whenever he thinks of her,
He gets a tingle in his erogenous zone!
He was left in no doubt what would have happened,
If he’d broken the touch taboo,
There’d have been poisonous snakes under his pillow,
And deadly spiders under the rim of the loo.
But there must be parts of him wondering,
If she would have been worth the risk,
For a quick game of slap and tickle.
But he daren’t even give her a frisk.
I hope that when he returned from Australia,
He flew rather than coming by boat,
Because the last time he sailed on the water,
He found that he couldn’t float.
As he tried to lower the roof,
So that the bridge could be cleared with ease,
He fell into the icy water,
And his little legs started to freeze.
As the powerful undercurrent,
Dragged him down towards certain death,
He was grabbed and pulled back to safety,
Spluttering, and desperate for breath.
But, his near drowning had its bright side.
With a smile like a Cheshire cat,
He allowed himself to stripped naked,
By two young ladies, both called Pat.
Once wrapped up in a warm blanket,
To cover what made him shy,
The ladies took cash from his pockets,
With his credits cards to hang them to dry.
He wants people to think that he’s brave,
So he does a bungee jump,
Praying that the rope holds together,
So he doesn’t go smack on his rump.
But we all know that he’s no daredevil,
His true game is more like gin rummy.
Why else would a man of his age,
Still be living at home with his mummy?
I’m sorry that he supports Chelsea.
Like him, they suffer the blues.
Still, they do their best for pensioners.
That explains why he hits the booze!
He knocks back the wine like it’s water.
Hollow Little Legs is our Trevor.
He thinks pickling his organs will preserve them,
But his brain is becoming less clever.
He has a strange friend known as Big Legs,
Who knocks For Sale signs down.
The estate agents keep having to replace them,
Cos they disappear all around town.
Then Trevor is sent to retrieve them,
And like Jesus with his crucifix,
He carries them off and hides them.
He must have had his Weetabix!
Or maybe, like Popeye, he eats spinach,
Or has Superman’s muscles of steel.
Cos for someone of such small stature,
The weight of For Sale signs could be an ordeal.
But it’s no ordeal for our Trevor,
Who has hidden strength and power.
Without sweating he could rip up a tissue,
Without strain he could pick a wild flower.
When I asked for details for your story,
Your friends all had a tale to tell.
But as you come to the end of this poem,
You’ll know that your enemies talked as well.
From the heart though, this is my opinion,
I say even though we’ve not met.
I think you’re an absolute genius,
Because you understand the Internet.
You can find your way round a computer,
Better than any one can.
If only you could repair video recorders as well,
You’d be my ideal man.
Don’t worry, I’m not trying to scare you.
There’s no need to run for cover.
I mean as my ideal handyman,
And not as my ideal lover.
So, near the closing of this great epic,
There’s not much more left to say,
Except, may you only know joy and true happiness,
On your thirty-fifth birthday.
In case you think I’m going soft,
Because my words are getting so soppy,
That’s only because I want information downloaded,
To a three-and-a-half inch floppy.
False sentiment and creeping,
Are two things I simply can’t abide.
But I’ll love you for ever and ever,
For downloading me Michael Ironside.
So when the other start to tease you,
And cruel words from their mouths do spurt,
Tell them you have a friend called Mandy,
Who will kick them where it will hurt!
Those who mock you, just don’t know you,
you could charm the birds down from the trees.
Though your legs are truly little,
They contain, as they say, the bees-knees.
So don’t take all their crap, all their nonsense.
Don’t take any more of their stick.
I can’t say any more nice things about you,
Cos I’m making myself feel sick!
Just For Trevor, is protected by copyright, and remains the
property of the author, Amanda Jay Clark.