10-05-2012, 08:51 AM
2nd Draft
Our Time
Garage roofs, were made for jumps,
when Mr Kenevil did his own stunts.
Old shed doors were skateboard ramps.
and games were played under lamps.
Garden fences were made to hop,
Chinn and Chapman were kings of pop.
Chippers, Choppers, Tomahawks and Racers,
were ridden by kids with Mickey Mouse braces.
Stories of ghosts and shadows mistook,
terrified in tents, dark nights down the brook.
Den’s dug out, under a car bonnet,
shot at by an idiot with a two, two bullet.
Corner shopping for large elastic bands,
that soon became weapons in the wrong hands.
Trees stripped of berries and nest stripped of eggs,
missiles thrown, conkering, watch out, mind your heads.
White lines on grass three pots and in,
play in the nets before the match begins.
Wet leather football, your skull it could crush,
seaside specials, popped on a rose bush.
When air riffles did the job of a cat,
night walks and torch, thud of a dead rat.
Time trials, on our own assault courses,
jumping obstacles as if we were horses.
Jewelweed pops open with the lightest of touch,
walk along pipes, jeans covered in slutch.
Abseil from windows, ropes tied to beds,
one word to parents and you are dead.
Saturday wrestling in homemade ring,
fingers bent back in a special move thing.
Two fingers poised to capture the Monster Mash,
stop before the talking bit or grave yard bash.
Sunday night the one hot bath of the week,
wrapped up tight in a Flannelette sheet.
Summers lazed on ever so slow,
and we did our best to try not to grow.
Exploring the day, never seeming to tire,
running through fields then setting them on Fire.
When time, was our time.
1st draft
Garage roofs were made for jumps.
Evil Kenevil did his own stunts.
Old shed doors were skateboard ramps.
Games were played under lamps.
Garden fences were made to hop,
Chinn and Chapman were kings of pop.
Chippers, Choppers, Tomahawks and Racers,
Were ridden by kids with Mickey Mouse braces.
Stories of Blood stones and the heads it had took,
Were whispered in tents, summer down the brook.
Den’s dug out and covered with a car bonnet,
Shot at by an idiot with a 22 bullet.
Corner shops that sold huge elastic bands,
That soon became weapons in the wrong hands.
Trees stripped of berries and nest stripped of eggs
Missiles thrown for conkering, watch out mind your heads.
White lines on grass, three pots and in,
play in the nets before the match begins.
Wet leather footballs, your skull to crush,
Kevin Keegan striker’s that popped on a rose bush.
When air riffles did the job of a cat,
Night walks with torches, thud of a dead rat.
Time trials and our own assault courses,
We jumped over obstacles as if we were horses.
Exploding plants that pop with a touch,
Walk across pipes, jeans covered in slutch.
Abseil from windows on ropes tied to beds,
One word to Mum and you are dead.
Watching Saturday wrestling in homemade ring,
Fingers bent back in a Mick Mcmanus special move thing.
Two fingers poised to capture the Monster Mash,
Stop before that talking bit in a grave yard bash.
Sunday night the one bath of the week,
Bed nice and clean, wrapped tight in a Flannelette sheet.
When time seemed to move ever so slow,
We did our best to try not to grow.
Exploring our world never seeming to tire,
Running through fields then setting them on Fire.
When time was our time.
Our Time
Garage roofs, were made for jumps,
when Mr Kenevil did his own stunts.
Old shed doors were skateboard ramps.
and games were played under lamps.
Garden fences were made to hop,
Chinn and Chapman were kings of pop.
Chippers, Choppers, Tomahawks and Racers,
were ridden by kids with Mickey Mouse braces.
Stories of ghosts and shadows mistook,
terrified in tents, dark nights down the brook.
Den’s dug out, under a car bonnet,
shot at by an idiot with a two, two bullet.
Corner shopping for large elastic bands,
that soon became weapons in the wrong hands.
Trees stripped of berries and nest stripped of eggs,
missiles thrown, conkering, watch out, mind your heads.
White lines on grass three pots and in,
play in the nets before the match begins.
Wet leather football, your skull it could crush,
seaside specials, popped on a rose bush.
When air riffles did the job of a cat,
night walks and torch, thud of a dead rat.
Time trials, on our own assault courses,
jumping obstacles as if we were horses.
Jewelweed pops open with the lightest of touch,
walk along pipes, jeans covered in slutch.
Abseil from windows, ropes tied to beds,
one word to parents and you are dead.
Saturday wrestling in homemade ring,
fingers bent back in a special move thing.
Two fingers poised to capture the Monster Mash,
stop before the talking bit or grave yard bash.
Sunday night the one hot bath of the week,
wrapped up tight in a Flannelette sheet.
Summers lazed on ever so slow,
and we did our best to try not to grow.
Exploring the day, never seeming to tire,
running through fields then setting them on Fire.
When time, was our time.
1st draft
Garage roofs were made for jumps.
Evil Kenevil did his own stunts.
Old shed doors were skateboard ramps.
Games were played under lamps.
Garden fences were made to hop,
Chinn and Chapman were kings of pop.
Chippers, Choppers, Tomahawks and Racers,
Were ridden by kids with Mickey Mouse braces.
Stories of Blood stones and the heads it had took,
Were whispered in tents, summer down the brook.
Den’s dug out and covered with a car bonnet,
Shot at by an idiot with a 22 bullet.
Corner shops that sold huge elastic bands,
That soon became weapons in the wrong hands.
Trees stripped of berries and nest stripped of eggs
Missiles thrown for conkering, watch out mind your heads.
White lines on grass, three pots and in,
play in the nets before the match begins.
Wet leather footballs, your skull to crush,
Kevin Keegan striker’s that popped on a rose bush.
When air riffles did the job of a cat,
Night walks with torches, thud of a dead rat.
Time trials and our own assault courses,
We jumped over obstacles as if we were horses.
Exploding plants that pop with a touch,
Walk across pipes, jeans covered in slutch.
Abseil from windows on ropes tied to beds,
One word to Mum and you are dead.
Watching Saturday wrestling in homemade ring,
Fingers bent back in a Mick Mcmanus special move thing.
Two fingers poised to capture the Monster Mash,
Stop before that talking bit in a grave yard bash.
Sunday night the one bath of the week,
Bed nice and clean, wrapped tight in a Flannelette sheet.
When time seemed to move ever so slow,
We did our best to try not to grow.
Exploring our world never seeming to tire,
Running through fields then setting them on Fire.
When time was our time.
