The Which?

A disappointing parody

I have come a great way on the Northern Line
After reading the Tube map wrong.
My ribs are near mush from the last-train crush
And the last southbound train has gone.
I should have taken the Archway branch,
But I've not been to Barnet before.
Oh, let me go through the barrier – there's a taxi rank outside the door!

The ticket inspector's a cruel man,
The cruellest man alive.
My ticket is for Zones 1-4, 
And he says that this is Zone 5.
I am but a little maiden still
That's why it's a child's Travelcard.
Oh , let me go through the barrier, before the exit is barred!

Her voice was the voice that children have
When they wake you at 2 am,
When they ask for a drink of water,
Then tell you the bed's wet again.
I looked at the ticket collector:
He shrugged and looked down at his feet,
Then he let her go through the barrier, and I went back to my beat!

WPC Mary Elizabeth Coalscuttle

First published in the anthology V8 Book of Lived — Penny Authors

A souvenir of my 30 years living in London. My ex-wife asked me for a poem in connection with a university course. It turned out that a parody of Mary Elizabeth Coleridge’s poem wasn’t what she had in mind – probably not the last time I disappointed her (and certainly not the first) – and I then lost sight of it altogether until it turned up in a paper-sifting session this year. Apparently, the police service stopped using the acronym WPC in 1999, the same year that I wrote this, but I didn’t know that at the time. I suppose it would be more PC (ahem!) to use the acronym PC (or just Constable). The Tube station is probably Paddington: I didn’t have a photo of Barnet or Archway. In fact, I couldn’t find another Tube station at all.

It might be fairer to Ms Coleridge to include a transcription of the original poem. Though she’d probably prefer to have nothing to do with me at all, if she could express an opinion. Even I’m disappointed with this post…

The Witch (1893)
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

I have walked a great while over the snow,
And I am not tall nor strong.
My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set,
And the way was hard and long.
I have wandered over the fruitful earth,
But I never came here before.
Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!

The cutting wind is a cruel foe.
I dare not stand in the blast.
My hands are stone, and my voice a groan,
And the worst of death is past.
I am but a little maiden still,
My little white feet are sore.
Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!

Her voice was the voice that women have,
Who plead for their heart’s desire.
She came—she came—and the quivering flame
Sunk and died in the fire.
It never was lit again on my hearth
Since I hurried across the floor,
To lift her over the threshold, and let her in at the door.