THE MASTER OF QUICK WIT & REPARTEE

A poem (well, rhyming verse actually)

 

In a red brick and grimy industrial town

(Just east of Burnley and a little bit down)

Preparations began for an annual event

That was bigger than Christmas, more sacred than Lent.

The town awoke from its slumber at a quarter to five,

And within a mere thirty minutes the streets were alive

With people setting up stalls and banners and flags,

As they ate up their breakfasts from white paper bags.

At nine the celebrations were starting to swing,

And two hours later there was a faint rumbling.

A small child heard it first, and in voice that was shrill,

Cried, “They’re coming! They’re coming! They’re coming over the hill!”

The townsfolk got ready and lined the streets in their droves,

All dressed in their freshly washed Sunday best clothes.

Music in the distance made them prick up their ears

And over the horizon the circus appeared.

As it is rolled into town with its lumbering trucks

The townsfolk gazed on with wondrous looks.

For this was their favourite time of the year

(Nothing much else ever happened round here).

The trapeze artists arrived, then the elephants and lions.

Next came the strong man who juggled five Mayans.

Then came the horses and tigers and eagles,

Followed by the man with his ten smoking beagles.

Then came the magician whose tricks all went wrong,

Followed by the rhinos that broke into song.

The ringmaster came next, cracking his whip through the town,

And finally, at the rear, came the tumbling clowns.

The procession rumbled through town until it came to a meadow

That was owned by a farmer by the name of Tom Beddow.

He’d seen this very circus on a day trip to Dover,

And they paid a nominal fee for his meadow of clover.

The Big Top went up and the performers rehearsed.

In a caravan the ringmaster and farmer conversed.

“Everything’s set, the forecast is sunny.”

“And the punters are ready to part with their money.”

Now, in this industrial town of red brick

Lived two brothers whose surname was Hick.

They were identical twins – one Peter, one Paul –

But apart from their looks they shared nothing at all.

Peter was stupid, moronic and thick.

He was a dunce with less sense than an average brick.

He was mentally challenged, a dimwit and slow,

His attention to detail was almost zero.

At school he was useless and was often regarded

As backward or a nitwit or just simply retarded.

His teachers despaired and contacted his mother.

Saying, “Why can’t he be like his intelligent brother?”

Peter couldn’t add up and he couldn’t subtract,

He couldn’t read Shakespeare and nor could he act.

His comprehension was atrocious, his grammar was worse,

He couldn’t write sentences and he couldn’t write verse.

He couldn’t understand physics or biology

Or chemistry or maths or palaeontology.

When asked something simple, he’d say without exception,

“Du-hur, I don’t understand the question.”

As he grew older his brain seemed to shrink

And he couldn’t do anything that required him to think.

He eventually found work in the town’s local zoo,

Mucking out the cages of the rhino and gnu.

His brain was so small he could never remember

Whether Christmas fell in July or December.

But despite his stupidity, frowning and slowness

There was one thing he loved – and that was the circus.

He liked the trapeze artists, the elephants and lions.

He liked the strong man who juggled five Mayans.

He liked the horses, the tigers and eagles,

He liked the man with his ten smoking beagles.

He liked the magician whose tricks all went wrong,

He liked the rhinos that broke into song.

He liked the ringmaster who cracked his whip through the town,

But he loved most of all the tumbling clowns.

Although his brother was moronic and thick,

Paul was the complete polar opposite.

He was a professor of mathematics, an historian and a boffin,

He could sing in falsetto without even coughing.

He could talk convincingly on all kinds of subjects,

On space travel and diplomacy and flesh-eating insects.

He was a qualified vet and did algebra for fun

And he could name all the components that made up a gun.

He was an expert in criminal and clinical psychology,

As well as science and religion and Jungian philosophy.

As an artist he was praised for his abstract creativity.

He could even explain Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.

He was a gastronome, a gourmet and a fabulous cook

(He’d even made improvements on Delia’s book).

He could play on his piano Gymnopodies by Satie,

But he was known best of all for his quick wit and repartee.

His put downs were legend, his wit sharp as a tack,

One lash of his tongue would take people aback.

His words were well-chosen, his sentences structured,

So fools and their pride could be easily ruptured.

His tongue was a weapon, his words ammunition,

No fool could escape his expert derision.

Those wasting their time watching soaps on their tellies

Were reduced by his wit to quivering jellies.

Only one man was spared from his withering wit –

He was the biggest fool in town, a monumental twit.

He spared him because he loved him (they shared the same mother) –

It was Peter, his incredibly stupid twin brother.

Now, Peter was in a state of excitement –

He knew what the tickets he had for this night meant.

He was going to the circus that travelled round towns!

He was going to the Big Top – and that meant the clowns!

Peter was wrapped in his scarf (the ends pinned to his back),

He had on his jumper and his black plastic mac.

The night air was chilly and it was starting to rain,

But none of that mattered inside young Peter’s brain.

His thoughts were on clowns – he was sure they’d be funny.

“That’s all very well,” said Paul. “Now don’t lose your money.”

When Peter left with his ticket in hand

He was the happiest man in all of the land.

He would be sat at the ringside (his favourite spot)

And he’d see everything clearly, the whole jolly lot.

He sat through the trapeze artists, the elephants and lions.

He sat through the strong man who juggled five Mayans.

He sat through the horses, the tigers and eagles,

He sat through the man with his ten smoking beagles.

He sat through the magician whose tricks all went wrong,

He sat through the rhinos that broke into song.

He sat through them all until the ringmaster came out.

“Please welcome the clowns!” he announced with a shout.

The clowns fell into the ring, rolling and tumbling –

All of them laughing – except one, who was grumbling.

He was a mean spirited clown by the name of John Hammett,

Who had a chip on his shoulder the size of a planet.

Hammett was not happy at being a joker,

And that’s why his face was as long as a poker.

The ringmaster’s job was what he really desired,

But his qualifications fell short of what was required.

He’d gone to the interview all tidy and neat,

But he couldn’t disguise his oversized feet.

The interview went badly, he didn’t do very well,

And the pressure of it all caused his armpits to smell.

“I’m sorry to inform you,” the interviewer trilled,

“The position of ringmaster has already been filled.

Despite your appearance, all tidy and neat,

I couldn’t help noticing your red nose and feet.

Your shoes are enormous and your feet are quite flat,

And I couldn’t take you seriously in your conical hat.

Your red nose was distracting, your face was too white,

For the ringmaster’s job you are simply not right.

But I can offer you the job of head honcho clown,

And if you don’t accept that you can get out of town.

One final thing – and this is just some advice –

Don’t shake my hand with that electric shocker device.”

So here Hammett was in this town of red brick,

When suddenly his eye spied young Peter Hick

Who was eating some popcorn and drinking a coke –

Just the right chump for a mean-spirited joke.

He looks a bit thick, thought the clown with a smile,

I’ll make a fool out of him because I’m so infantile.

Peter was too happy watching the other clowns tumbling

That he didn’t notice Hammett with his moaning and grumbling.

Hammett stepped over to the ringside and gave Peter a grin

Whose happy face looked like his boat had come in.

He couldn’t believe it, he was part of the show,

Unaware he would soon be dealt a terrible blow.

“Are you the front end of an ass?” asked Hammett the clown.

“I don’t think I am,” replied Peter with a frown.

“Are you the back end of an ass?” the clown continued to question.

“I don’t think I am,” Peter said in confusion.

“Then you must be no end of an ass,” the clown laughed in his face.

Peter’s bottom lip quivered and he ran out of the place.

He ran out in tears as the audience roared,

And Hammett thought: With morons like him I’ll never get bored.

Peter may have been stupid and easily pleased

But he was also thin-skinned and easily teased.

He ran all the way home and interrupted his twin

Who was writing a biography of Ho Chi Min.

“I’ll sort that clown out on the life of our mother.

I’ll get him back,” Paul promised his brother.

“I’ll make him pay – you wait and see –

For I am the master of quick wit and repartee!”

The next night Paul, with his ticket in hand,

Was the angriest person in all of the land.

He sat at the ringside (Peter’s favourite spot)

To see everything clearly, the whole sorry lot.

He sat through the trapeze artists, the elephants and lions.

He sat through the strong man who juggled five Mayans.

He sat through the horses, the tigers and eagles,

He sat through the man with his ten smoking beagles.

He sat through the magician whose tricks all went wrong,

He sat through the rhinos that broke into song.

He sat through them all until the ringmaster came out.

“Please welcome the clowns!” he announced with a shout.

The clowns fell into the ring, laughing and tumbling –

All except Hammett, who was, of course, grumbling.

But then a grin stretched across Hammett’s cruel face

When he saw last night’s victim in exactly the same place.

He’s come back for more, thought the clown, with a smile,

I’ll embarrass him again, because I’m feeling hostile.

“Are you the front end of an ass?” the clown Hammett asked confidently.

“No,” replied Paul with absolute certainty.

“Are you the back end of an ass?” the clown continued to ask.

“No,” replied Paul, his face as blank as a mask.

“Then you must be no end of an ass,” said the clown with big feet.

Paul didn’t respond and remained in his seat.

The crowd started to smile, then they started to snigger,

But they began to go quiet when Paul suddenly seemed bigger.

He got out of his seat looking angry and tall,

And a small boy cried out, “It’s not Peter – it’s Paul!”

A sudden silence descended throughout the Big Top

And it dawned on the clown that his act was flop.

The name of Paul Hick was known throughout many towns

And he was mightily feared in the society of clowns.

They carried his picture in their extra-large pockets –

And his face made their eyes bulge from their sockets.

Hammett should have paid more attention, his come-uppance was nigh,

And he fell to knees and started to cry.

He could see, looking up, Paul’s face getting madder –

Then he lost all control and emptied his bladder.

The silence was deafening, the air sombre and grey,

As the audience waited for what Paul had to say.

For Paul was at the very top of the tree

When it came to quick wit and repartee.

His well-chosen words would be witty and cruel –

They would make the clown look like an ignorant fool.

The sentence was structured, Paul face was like thunder –

He was now ready to punish the clown for his blunder.

The crowd covered their ears (a sensible decision)

To muffle the sound of Paul’s witty derision.

Paul looked down at the clown and these wry words he blasted,

“Fuck off, you flat-footed, red-nosed bastard!”

Hammett clutched at his chest and cried out in anguish –

His heart nearly burst upon hearing Paul’s language.

He fell to the ground, twitching and weeping,

And from the crotch of his trousers something awful was seeping.

The crowd roared their approval, they whistled and hooted,

At the clown who been truly metaphorically booted.

At home, over Horlicks, Paul said to his brother,

“I told you I’d get him on the life of our mother.”

He related the events of his glorious night,

Of his sparkling wit and the clown’s well-deserved fright.

But what about Hammett, that mean spirited clown?

He was sacked by the ringmaster and then run out of town.

The society of clowns struck his name off their list

And he spent the rest of his life being totally pissed.

The trapeze artists were history, like the elephants and lions.

No more the strong man who juggled five Mayans.

The horses had bolted with the tigers and eagles,

And gone was the man with his ten smoking beagles.

Vanished was the magician whose tricks all went wrong,

Extinct were the rhinos that broke into song.

Hammett would never again hear in any more towns

The ringmaster calling, “Please welcome the clowns!”

In his sleep he dreamed of his avoidable error –

And Paul’s terrible words woke him twitching in terror.

They invaded his mind like an extra-loud klaxon –

Haunting his nights with their ripe Anglo-Saxon!