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John Reginald Holmes Now, Reggie Holmes of Flaxmere Moss, For official men, he didn’t give a toss. Turn up in a suit, clipboard in your hand, He’d holler at you, “Get off my land!” TV licence? You should know better, Just don’t ask or you’ll get a letter. He’d write to you again and again, He would become quite a pain. He lived by the Moss for many a year, Would nip to the Carriers to sup his beer. With a glass of the black stuff in his hand, He’d quietly listen to the band. He’d call at a ceilidh all night long, Be in his glory, in the throng. On the dance floor Reg would be prancing, With pretty women he did love dancing. Spinning around, their tresses flowing, That’s what got our Reggie going. Their skirts a twirling ever faster, He’d let them know who was the master. With Turbary rights he was the last, Of slicing peat, he was quite fast. “Burns hotter than coal!” you’d hear him shout, “I love the stuff, it costs me nowt!” © Terry Webb June 2010 |