The bell ringers
It rings a bell
the campanologists are competing
Although at this stage I don't know this
Their sonority has yet to reach my timpanis membrane
As I negotiate the mini roundabout on foot
At the heart valve of the village
Having sat the last hundred yards in silence
After rebuking my wife
For almost taking a wrong turning.
It's all about the particulars see.
You are to be found around the back of the Sussex Oak
And suddenly the bells clang into focus
The air is jubilant and expectant.
Although I sense this is a rehearsal
It isn't for the campanologists.
Life is not a rehearsal they chime.
Each pull is a meaningful yank
(hear a clang across the pond)
on the placenta of heaven's womb
One false move and blood will rain.
but until then here is a medley of events
From the radiant to the apocalyptic
Through the funereal via the every-day come hither cycle of the Sunday service.
We sit supping our pints in a session
And you roll an ex-smoker a fat one that will take a few days to wear off.
(or at least for my irritability to pass)
That's the funeral sound you say
And our heads cock to the single repeated tone.
the judges must all retire to a nearby field
Where they sit unaware of the order of the campanologists
You relate how one such competition came to tangled blows (after pulls).
I wonder what the Beano drawing of scrapping bell ringers would look like?
This stuff draws itself.
Here in the pub garden
Around the back
All these events cycle past
The wedding of the full-faced post office counter server.
Clingy clangy dingle dongle jingle spangle
the burial of her father the bookkeeper
Dang dang dang ang dang dad
The end of the world
Ding dang ding dang
The start of the evacuation
Ding dang ding dang ding dang
The celebration of the beginning
Ding dong ding dong
My Love lasts long
Here we are three friends
Three would be campanologists
Ready to tangle with the best of them
Ready to rise up the belfry
In our cassocks
The vicar's daughter half averting her gaze
From our manly clappers swinging freely
Ding dong ding dong
We shall stumble and slip slide home
Through the rain-slicked hard compacted earth pathways
Giggling like a babbling brook chiming in the distance
As we reminisce over old ground
And set the world to rights
We three would be campanologists
It rings a bell.
the campanologists are competing
Although at this stage I don't know this
Their sonority has yet to reach my timpanis membrane
As I negotiate the mini roundabout on foot
At the heart valve of the village
Having sat the last hundred yards in silence
After rebuking my wife
For almost taking a wrong turning.
It's all about the particulars see.
You are to be found around the back of the Sussex Oak
And suddenly the bells clang into focus
The air is jubilant and expectant.
Although I sense this is a rehearsal
It isn't for the campanologists.
Life is not a rehearsal they chime.
Each pull is a meaningful yank
(hear a clang across the pond)
on the placenta of heaven's womb
One false move and blood will rain.
but until then here is a medley of events
From the radiant to the apocalyptic
Through the funereal via the every-day come hither cycle of the Sunday service.
We sit supping our pints in a session
And you roll an ex-smoker a fat one that will take a few days to wear off.
(or at least for my irritability to pass)
That's the funeral sound you say
And our heads cock to the single repeated tone.
the judges must all retire to a nearby field
Where they sit unaware of the order of the campanologists
You relate how one such competition came to tangled blows (after pulls).
I wonder what the Beano drawing of scrapping bell ringers would look like?
This stuff draws itself.
Here in the pub garden
Around the back
All these events cycle past
The wedding of the full-faced post office counter server.
Clingy clangy dingle dongle jingle spangle
the burial of her father the bookkeeper
Dang dang dang ang dang dad
The end of the world
Ding dang ding dang
The start of the evacuation
Ding dang ding dang ding dang
The celebration of the beginning
Ding dong ding dong
My Love lasts long
Here we are three friends
Three would be campanologists
Ready to tangle with the best of them
Ready to rise up the belfry
In our cassocks
The vicar's daughter half averting her gaze
From our manly clappers swinging freely
Ding dong ding dong
We shall stumble and slip slide home
Through the rain-slicked hard compacted earth pathways
Giggling like a babbling brook chiming in the distance
As we reminisce over old ground
And set the world to rights
We three would be campanologists
It rings a bell.
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