Little willies are poems wherein the titular character inadvertently(?) causes the death of a sibling with humorous commentary from an uncaring mother. Or something of the sort. They are quite dark and quite funny, in my opinion. But then I do enjoy that sort of thing.
Anyway, I thought I’d have a go at writing one. For reasons I can’t quite fathom, this one took me at least five years to write. But I think it was worth it.
I sent this one to Mr Gyles Brandreth as I feel it would sound great read out by him. Obviously I wasn’t so rude as to ask him to do that, I just wanted his opinion on it and he wrote back to say,
Your poem is a triumph!Gyles Brandreth
It’s in best tradition of Hilaire Belloc and Cyril Fletcher!
I hope you have learnt it by heart and will be performing everywhere once we’re allowed.
Meanwhile: CONGRATULATIONS and thank you for sharing. It’s a joy!
Mr Brandreth was very kind and encouraging with his message and I am very grateful that he took the time to read my nonsense and respond to my cry to be noticed.
And so, finally, here it is.
Little Willy and the kite
Little Willy thought he might Go to the park to fly his kite. His mother said, “Oh Willy dear, The wind might be too strong I fear.” But out the door young Willy raced With kite in hand and smile on face. He didn’t hear his mother’s cries His only thought was kite filled skies. That, he thought, would be quite grand So off he ran with kite in hand At the park the wind blew strong And Willy thought, it won’t be long Until my kite is flying higher Than any chimney stack or spire. He let out string, he let out lots He didn’t notice all the knots He didn’t notice all the tangles As the string wrapped round his ankles Then Willy made a whooshing sound As he was lifted from the ground. The kite flew high above the town With Willy hanging upside down From tangled string and knotted tail And Willy gave a mournful wail. “Ooooh I do not like this at all, I fear that I shall surely fall! And if I do not get free soon I’ll end up flying to the moon!” He tugged the string with all his might But found the knots were knotted tight. Down below young Will was spotted “That boy’s caught up! His string’s all knotted!” The people yelled, and ran about And Willy’s Ma began to shout “Please won’t someone help my son?! He only flew his kite for fun And didn’t listen to my warning. Now, I fear, he’ll end up falling!” And crying that her son was doomed She sobbed dramatically and swooned The fire brigade and police were called But they were of no use at all And chased poor Will across the town With no clue how to get him down And all the while young Willy dangled String still tight around his ankles His face was green, he felt quite sick He needed to get down and quick “I’d feel much better on the ground! But what’s that dreadful ripping sound?!” Willy looked toward his kite And gave himself an awful fright The wind had blown and raged and battered And left the kite all torn and tattered. The tail, made with string and glue, Was practically all torn in two. The crowd watched on. His Ma was bawling The brave young lad had started falling From 15,000 feet or more! Young Will was headed to the floor The townsfolk watched as Willy fell But where he’d land they couldn’t tell. The wind it blew him left and right And gave his Ma an awful fright. As Willy blew this way and that A fireman took off his hat And looking up toward the boy He shouted with triumphant joy “The boy won’t come to any harm, He’s landing in the sewage farm! Plunging fast towards the ground Willy made a whistling sound And flexed his ears to steer a bit Towards a steaming sewage pit. The vile mess, all warm and brown, Was sure to slow young Willy down And in he landed with a plop And floated briefly on the top. Covered in small bits of kite He sank, quite slowly, out of sight. The townsfolk finally arrived With hopes the lad could be revived But first they’d need to get him out And people soon began to shout, “Fetch a ladder!” “Fetch a rope!” “Don’t worry Mrs, there’s still hope!” But while they tried their very best Their efforts ended in distress For no-one knew quite what to do. And so poor Willy drowned. In poo. Moral The moral of this sorry tale? Don’t fly your kite in a force nine gale And while it’s nice to have some fun You should always listen to your mum