Aunt Beth

You’ve heard the line,

‘Colder than a witch’s tit’?

Well, Aunt Beth’s titties

Weren't cold at all.

They were warm,

And soft

Like fresh baked sponge -

Sweet too,

If I am to tell the whole of it.


She weren’t my Aunt,

But a woman who

Took me home.


Aunt Beth saw me dancing

For an old man,

And told me I’d never have

To dance again.


I went willingly,

And she left the man,

Tangled in his giblets

In an alleyway 

Behind the pub,

Taking a prize of his tongue.


She served it to me,

Grilled with garlic butter

And a pinch of thyme.

No different from ox tongue

From the market -

Save in size.


I golloped it up,

Garlic and all,

Butter leaking down my chin.

I loved her for it,

And I never did dance again.


February 2020



I must have been having a dirty mind moment when the skeleton of this poem came to me. Just one word popped into my head - titties - not breasts, or boobs, or even tits, but titties. It sounded like the kind of thing a kid would say, and that gave me an image of a child (it didn't matter if they were male or female). They were in a bad situation and helped by a woman, who at one point must have held them to her breast, initially for comfort, but perhaps for something more once they were older. I wanted to tell the story of that child meeting Beth in their words.



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