Thrown off a rocky red ridge
On the holy grounds of St. Francis De Sales church
God bless him
Taunted and teased
A mop of boys chucked him off
Left him

All alone

With a fractured right arm
He searched for me
Not home

All alone

He found my friend
Jessie
Took him to Walton Hospital
Right away
When I heard
I rushed to Walton Hospital
Without a whimper or a whine
The poor little bugger
Had waited in the emergency room for hours

Five
Hours before they reset his bent arm
It was like a bloody bamboo crossbow
It was
Six weeks into recovery
Were he could now draw and write
With his left arm
He gave me half a hug
A half more than he would give his father

A Little Bit Further

And you can see
A little bit of our Geography
As well as history
Their it is

Aintree

Was the place to be
And to work for William P Hartley
Knighted for philanthropy
He served his community
With geniality
Workers worked
Under an arch of sun
Hartley
Was the beacon for every one
Trademarks
Built on industry
He became the lighthouse for humanity
And that is part of Aintree’s history

The Liver Birds
Swept along the Cheshire line
Sweeping down
Landing
On top of Hartley’s Tower
A four-faced clock that overlooked the landscape
Aintree and Walton
Perched
Onto a purifying plant of processed pectin
Fresh fruit
Permeated the landscape
As it emanated onto the Lancashire Yorkshire Railway Line
Boxes of unrefined sweetness
Fresh fruit
Delivered to Hartley’s warehouse
Were factory workers would preserve the fruits of their labor
While English ladies would preserve their lives
While spreading these fruits onto a pastry scone
In an English Country Garden

Pausing

Grandma remarked
That her mom of eight children
A domestic
Would wash the white bed sheets of the Hartley household
Each week
Treated with respect and kindness
She washed away the blues


Overseeing
Hartley’s jam factory

Captain Jacob

A crackpot
But not crackbrained
Had a cracking good idea
He would manufacture crackers
For armies of people
This monocular Quaker would be up at the crack of dawn
Cloaked in black
Sported in spats
A harsh taskmaster
Who worked
At a cracking pace
Were he would crack down
On
Idleness and Catholics
His factory workers feared him
But not as much as

Farmer Rose’s Daughter

A young cracker
She was
But she was cracked up
Fallen lass
Unwed
With child
Hung herself
On Christmas Eve
At the young age of eighteen
Found
Hanging
Between the wooden frame of the old farmhouse door

Captain Jacob

A crackpot
But was crackbrained
Had a cracking bad idea
He installed the old wooden doorframe
Into the wall of his cracker factory
Crackers
An idea that’s not all cracked up to be
The tale goes like this
On Christmas Eve
Noises crackle and crunch into the cracks of the crackling night
The farmer’s daughter appears as a haunting apparition
Were she incarnated her spirit under the old wooden doorframe
Needless to say
On Christmas Eve
You don’t pull Christmas crackers
Under dear young Rose’s old wooden doorframe

Listen

Thundering
And galloping
Could be heard across Warbeck Moor
Colors
Royal and blue
Fall in a mire of pain
Neigh
People cried
No more
But on and on they go
Steadfast steeds
Stride steeples in a sefton chase
Brook no fear
Beachers Brook
Beckons near
Stretched
In a stampede of sweat and steam
Horses
And men
Fall and fly
In twists of writhing screams
While horses jump over heights of horror
Galloping
Chasing
Grunting
Gulps of grueling air
Astride
On a shattering saddle skin of tearing flesh
Jockeys clutch
Onto a rein of terror
Mangled manes
Strand into streaks of stinking sweat
Crops
Crack into whinnying whimpers of whipping pain
Bridled
In blinkers of black
The racehorse whines on
Over
And over
Beck and hedge
Jumping
Jumping
Over and over
Falling
Falling
Over and over
Breech and breeches
Bounce on diverts of dung
Shards of shine
Splash and splatter
As shitty hooves
Pick up
Matter
And clatter
On
On
And on

In mud and muck
Racing
Pacing
Into a packing hacking pace
All to win a bloody steeplechase

The Grand National

A lottery of shame
Leaving the tipsters to gain
And the horses in pain
All in all
Prince Monolula would say
Aintree’s Grand National is the steeplechase of the year
So let’s celebrate with a stout pint of Walkers brown beer

Cheers

Cracker crumbs
Fell from Shus beak
Fluffing off his feathers
Preened and cleaned
Keylara washed the marmalade off her beak
In the downspout of a downpour
Showers stopped
Wings in a yawn
Tail to the wind
A shake and a flutter
Turn your back
On time
To leave Harleys tower
To visit prisoners who have lost their power
To

Walton Jail


Birds eye view
Looking down
Straight across
Inner
Outer
Curtain
Walled
In
Square
Sharp
Corners
Confined
Compound
Surround
Wall