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The calling of St Crispin
Copyright © 2007 Mick Coyle
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On this the night of St Crispin, the calling can be heard.
The followers are summoned, with out a single word
The gathering is nigh, their orders are sealed
Across the land they journey to the mystic land of Sheffield.
Their flight is treacherous and takes many a day
All will not survive as some falter along the way
Their bodies will fall in the gutter of mankind
But the calling is strong, their destination they must find.
The noise can be heard as their journey begins
The clunk of club foot and the squeak of false limbs
With Charlie on back, old and infirm
Bodies all aching and legs full of woodworm.
The ones who fall their bodies rot and decay
Their limbs to tarnish and rust away
The buzzards they circle high over head
Ready to feast on St Crispin’s dead.
Dressed in ritual attire all fresh from the hock
Their shiny new nippers and their newly ironed smock
Motif; last and crossed hammer, worn with dignity and pride
Dedication beyond reason, a refusal to hide.
The old ones remember the day’s long gone bye
Apprentice to Heel-a-matt, when they first heard the cry.
Balf Street is no more, just memories of old
The old men lament, the young must be told.
At Healy’s, they venture, their debit to pay
And kneel to their deity, give credit they pray
Robin stands firm but Tim gives way
They live to cobble another day.
With stock in hand, they make for their beds
Some to their hovel and some to their sheds
This being St Crispin’s way to purge the feeble and weak
The perfect cobbler his goal to seek.
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