My First by Malcolm Saunders
My first at Oxford,
was a struggle
for a working class lad
out of place.
A punt ride
the first
thing to do
through dreaming spires.
My belle at the prow
was taking a bow
as I pushed
away from the berth.
Our zigzag course
down the Isis
was forced
past elegant
champagne quaffers.
Pole stuck in the mud,
we crashed with a thud
and my lady tipped into
the river.
Riven with guilt
that she had been spilt,
I grabbed at her dress
which slipped off her.
The sight of her bum
through wet knickers
low hung,
raised a cheer
from straw hatted hearties.
An occasion was at
the Randolph Hotel,
most prestigious place
in the city.
The Dowager Lady,
Birdbrain by name,
tottered toward
the main entrance.
Escorted along
by her weird, little band
of broken nosed
spotty face Nazis.
I stood in the way.
Why shouldn't I stay?
I was there to support
striking porters.
Then, fast hauled away
and caged in a van,
before being fined
at the court house.
Yes, my first arrest
was at Oxford,
and my first punt
a damp squib.
Thirty five quid
out of pocket
and love lost
into the drink.