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Collingham Fire Crew
Just like TV's Trumpton, we retain a Fire Crew,
In case of an emergency, to rescue me or you,
Now Warren is in charge of it, his title is the Sub,
With Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grubb.
They race around the village streets; their
engine is bright red,
With blues and two's a sounding, it's enough to wake the dead,
On rescues? Mercy dashes? Or on other
dangerous trips?
No! Just a dash to Newark, for Warren's Fish & Chips.
They all have walkie talkie's, in case they're called away,
And bleeper's tucked in belt tops, to page them night and day,
With all these high tech systems, they should act like adults,
But all they're really used for are the latest sports results.
They like to rescue ladies, from predicaments up high,
With aluminium ladders, that reach up to the sky,
But that's not all they're used for, as now I am revealing,
They also come in handy, when Warren paints his ceiling.
Whenever Warren's bleeper goes, he'll rush from his employment,
In a manner which to you and I, is simply quite flamboyant,
You'll be left with doors off hinges, with plumbing that still leaks,
To get him there to start the job has taken weeks and weeks.
But really this is just for fun, I'm writing this in jest,
The Fire Crew at Collingham, they simply are the best,
If you don't want them calling, to rescue you from harm,
Just take advice from Warren, and fit a smoke alarm.
The Phantom Scribbler Strikes Again. 2000
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