Skinny Dipping in Cayton Bay

A random poem from me book  – true in parts…oo err.. It’s kinda ribald – popular at gigs and in pubs if there are no kids present – why are kids allowed in pubs? That’s a whole other issue – they never were when mine were growing up.

 

I was booked for a gig in Scarborough
Fergal Sweeney’s Irish Bar. A lousy venue 
Meat-head crowd. Cheap booze.
Rowdy at the best of times and they were few and far between.
But the moon was full and the rent was overdue.
 
An innuendo was just the job to grab the punters’ attention
So I gave them one and slipped another in.
Announcing, “Skinny Dipping!”
 
A bored ear or two in the crowd pricked up at that
But soon returned to drinking
And talk of greyhounds and horses,
The weather and tumours.
 
I went for broke, and, arguably,
Just a little intemperately
Leapt on a chair that did not tip up
And swash buckled on to a table that did.
 
A flood of Sweeney’s ‘balls of malt’
And a solitary ‘Sex on the Beach’
Drenched me as I sprawled my length.
 
The usually unflappable Sweeney grabbed my collar,
“Get Out! You’re barred. You feckin’ pótaire gurrier.”
 
Drunken, exuberant,
Singing a schoolboy song
Mocking Hitler’s testicular deficiency
Slash scrotal shortcomings (alleged)
I marched over South Bridge heading for Hull
Waving my thumb in vain
At drunken yahoos speeding home.
 
My legs gave out at Cayton Bay
I could hardly take another step
So headed to the beach to rest.
 
Above the din of milling gulls,
The giggling of women grabbed my attention. 
From behind a bush I watched three,
Stripping then skipping into the sea.
 
I should have hidden discreetly
Feasting my eyes on the private tableau.
But still drunk and full of bravado,
I stood and applauded the view.
 
They, wet, naked and unashamed,
Waved for me to go and join them.
I stripped to my boxers, dashing,
Splashing into the sea.
 
My headlong splash-dive
Left my sagging kecks half-mast.
The women tussled playfully
To finish the job of stripping me off.
 
They circled me singing,
“The Farmer’s in His Den,”
Tossing my boxers from hand to hand
Winking coquettishly as they passed my face
Full frontally.
 
“The farmer’s in his den,
The farmer’s in his den,
EE-I-AD-I-O
The farmer’s in his den.
 
The farmer wants a wife….
The wife wants a child….
The child wants a nurse….
The nurse wants a dog….
The dog wants a bone…”
 
And when they sang
“We all pat the bone.” 
And made a dash to grab
And pat my little chap
I could not stand for that.
 
I blame the water – it was that chilly
It made me feel a little dicky.
 
Derisive whistles and a chorus of,
“I spy with my little eye,”
(With pinkies waggling)
Stalked behind as I skulked away,
Tail between my legs,
To drip and dress behind a bush.
 
Next time I spot those ‘Furies’ dipping in the bay
I won’t wait for an invitation. I’ll dive right in
Letting my ‘credentials’ do my talking for me.

 

 

 

 

© coolhermit 2020
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critique and comments welcome.
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Mitch

Ha, loved the imagery and the reminscences…

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