Not an actual Willy

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!
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!

Gyles Brandreth

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.

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

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