Although it's a cold evening, with a sprinkling of snow,

I've put on extra woollies; for it's nearly time to go.

You might ask where I'm going, and whom I'm going to meet,

I'm just the local Bobby, going on his late shift beat.

Policing the streets of the city, on a cold and frosty night,

Trying all the shop doors; and to see if they are locked tight.

Looking out for burglars, drunks and layabouts,

Suggesting that they move along; or expect a clout.

Last night I saw Harry Jeffrey; he'd just had a fall,

He'd been trying his hardest, to open his front door.

“Evening Offsher” he greeted me, with a drunken slur,

“I don't want to awaken the family, especially, not her”.

“I seem to be in a pickle, and just can't open the door”,

I open the door for him, and he falls in on the floor.

He falls again in the kitchen, it makes an awful din,

I hear a voice booming, “Where the hell have you bin?”

Harry will stay grounded, for over a week,

His wife will stay silent, for days she will not speak.

These people are not criminals; they work hard all the year,

They're always there to help you, without any fear.

The people that live here; they're industrious and nice,

Trouble with their youngsters, you don't warn them twice.

Where's the place I'm talking about? Is what you'd like to know,

Alas, it's just an old copper who's dreaming, of policing long ago.

RON BOOTH Ravenshead