He walked with style and danced the jazz.
On the banks of the Coln lay the quaint Bilbury
Where the ol’ cat lived without a world of worry.
Spic n’ span, bow tied and suited
Black leather gloved, shiny cowboy booted.
He played music country plucking the banjo
Leaving ‘em blushing dames asking on for more.
Was the talk-o’-town, walking with 7 heads held high
Smooth talker to the core, if he ever was nigh.
Sauntered down his alley and up the shady shack
O’er the rusted farm fence and all the way back.
‘Nuf of the lil town’, he thought one day
‘Gotta swing my magic to the lands far away’.
‘Miami! Cherookee! Tennessee’, hollered the drunk moose at the bar
His checkered sleeve splish splashing a whisky glass from afar.
‘Well those are harmless names’, thought Spaz with a grin
‘I could shake a sleepy town awake with all my whacky din.’
So off to Tennessee he set on a fine summer morn
Leavin’ his friends behind to dance the Hillbilly town.
Off the battered loco he got down with 7 heads held high
Unaware of the sniggers and the occasionally audible sigh.
‘Barkin’ dawgs izzat 7 heads’, exclaimed the drunked porter
‘Not ever have ah seen sumpin’ like this’, squealed the lil’ pigtailed runner.
The towners nudged and gossiped, the young’uns had their fun
As Ol’ Spazzie walked around forlon in the hotness of the sun.
The moustached men thought him a freak if there was one born
Huddled together o’er their beers right across the barn.
The women folk appalled him with their style so bold
Makin’ the fair dainty dames back home look old.
Cat sauntered to the bar and ordered his favourite Jäger
‘It’s a tuppence per head’, said the barman with a swagger.
“I’m a singer and play the banjo live”, Cat then belched
Got to the stage as drunk as a blind hamster quenched.
Tripped on a wire and almost fell face down
Shaking his head clear to the chants of “Hey kitty, mind the flowy gown”.
A nervous Spaz auditioned for a song
But each of his 7 heads got it all wrong.
Each sang a different tune and got the notes haywire
Fighting to mouth the microphone and sing even louder.
‘That’s the awfullest thing ah ever heard’, cried the barman
‘This howling like a banshee aint that pretty’, nonchalanted the serving man.
Out was kicked Cat and told never to give a lookie back
Found a job in a café and lived on a sack.
But all wasn’t smooth ‘cuz no kitchener was he
He burnt and bruised, lost in the gastronomic melee.
Unfortunate was the day when he was mopping the floor dry
He slipped over a large blob of oil, oh my my my!
His sleeve struck down the burner alight
The water tap rushed to him to reduce his plight.
By then the curtains by the sink had caught on the fire
And danced to a musicless sound, ready for the pyre.
Spaz dunked and doused the flames till all were out
Finally looked at the black mess that was about.
‘Nuf of this big town’, he thought that day
As the boss kicked him around and away.
He missed the adoring listeners and the free flowing wine
Reminiscing the banjo playing in the gay sunshine.
He jumped the next loco and headed back where he belonged
His heart full of joy as his lips continuously songed.
Ran down his alley and sprinted to the shack so cosy
This is where he was meant to be, where life was so rosy.