Benskins Brewery

A Memory of Watford.

Such a very small house, this semi of theirs,
So very squashed-up in between
Two others the same, but it gave itself airs
With the front door in Dark Cabbage Green.

Why on earth I was there, in this very small house,
Quite simply, I just didn’t know;
Though second thoughts tell me I probably did -
It was all eighty long years ago:

The funny small man who had married my aunt
I was made to call ‘Uncle’, although
Most uncles were nice and they took you to zoos,
Whereas this one was strictly de trop.

But my favourite pastime of playing with words
Was rewarded! It chimed with my puns.
(Spoonerisms and rhymes were like marzipan bars
And trains and hot chocolate and buns.)

From my small bedroom window I found I could see
On a factory roof a firm’s name;
Cut-out letters said ‘SNIKSNEB’ when seen from behind.
And it started a favourite game.

‘What’s a sniksneb?’ I’d ask. And the clever ones frowned
And giggled, pretending to grouse;
So, Benskin’s worked wonders at cheering me up
In that rather unhappy small house.

©Paul Wigmore 2013