Tools of the trade
by Raymond Holt
An ex Cranleigh village Bobby
My handcuffs locked mischief together,
Kept it in one place.
The truncheon, I never used,
A force without a face.
The pocket book recorded history,
Notes made at the time.
It decided people’s future,
Sometimes including mine.
I always wore my whistle,
Although well out of date.
Children lined up to blow it,
Pass their colds on, to a mate.
Boots were black and shiny,
Part of policeman’s roots.
The sergeant said he could always tell,
Man’s character by his boots.
The court-house was my workshop,
But I never could relax.
I kept looking over my shoulder,
For a sneaky verbal attack.
But what I liked the most,
Middle England liked the same.
To see me on my old green bike,
Down leafy country lanes.
I’d do it all again,
If I could turn the old clock back.
Because although I was a bobbie,
Good friends I never lacked.
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