Someone met me at the station, took me to the village hall,
Stacking chairs and trestle table, last weekend's Tombola stall,
The chairman makes the introductions, polite applause from crowd of three,
Then I stand and make my speeches, tell myself they've heard of me.
Lady in the front row's snoring, my Power Point fails to impress,
Her husband's looking at his Timex, plainly touched by my success,
Eventually I take my last bow, there's some relief in their applause,
An agenda quickly follows, who's to play their Santa Claus.
White bread sandwiches, ham or tuna, Typhoo Tea or Nescafe,
I find my own way to the station, say I'll come another day,
Not the fame that I'd imagined, sitting at my Olivetti,
Trailing round the halls of England, boring Gran and Aunty Betty.
I've autographed a hundred volumes, drunk a thousand cups of tea,
Village halls and dingy chapels, none of them have heard of me,
But they ask me to their meetings, listen politely to my talk,
Shake my hand and are encouraging, forget me before I walk.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved