P.C. Plod had just come off point duty in Yates Wine Lodge
and was making his way back to the cop shop for a meat pie
and a liedown, when he suddenly realised he was lost.
As was his custom in cases like this
he looked for a member of the public to assist him.
For purposes of this poem,
the one nearest to hand was a Yippie.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you sir, but would you be so kind
as to direct me to the nearest police station?’
‘Pig’ said the Yippie, ‘Pig.’
Plod smiled, ‘Perhaps I have not made myself quite clear…’
The Yippie produced a water pistol from his handbag
and directed a stream into Plod’s good eye.
‘Pig’ said the Yippie, ‘Pig’ ‘Pig’
‘ ’pon my soul’ muttered the peeved P.C.
and moving with the speed of a man twice his size
drew from beneath his policecape
a sawnoff potato shotgun. The Yippie blanched.
‘Pig’ he hissed. ‘Badger’ retorted Plod
and with deadly aim, let go four and a half rounds
of King Edwards. The youngman fell in a heap.
‘Silly place to leave a heap’ thought Plod
as he bareheaded to the nearest barrowlady
to refill his helmet with ammo.