Some time in the future.
Well, let me tell you about the last of the Romanys,
What you and me call gypsies, tinkers, travellers,
Them folk who used to wander from country to country,
Roam from town to town, village to village, looking
For somewhere to park their vehicles, to stay awhile,
To rest their weary bodies against the warmth of Mother Earth;
You remember them, don't you, kept themselves to themselves,
Wanted to be left in peace, to be... er... Romanys, to speak Romany,
To think Romany, to sing Romany, to dance Romany, to love Romany;
Sorry, got a bit carried away; where was I?
Ah yes, well the very last one has died, yes, she's gone, an old girl
Called Ruby, or was it Rosie?
Never mind, the point is that archaeologists got in
And dug up where she'd been staying, a tiny caravan site.
And do you know what they found?
Nothing, no graves, or foundations, or treasure, or anything -
Wait a minute, there was one small thing, some old seeds,
Seeds from white heather, a plant that was meant to be lucky;
The Romanys loved their white heather, sold it by the barrowful,
Spreading luck to the rest of us, as if we needed it, mind you.
Oh before I forget, that old girl's place, or should it be space,
Well, whatever, them archaeolgists have gone now
And the council are going to make it into a car park.
Chris Fernie, 2006
Poetry by Chris Fernie
Read 501 times
Written on 2006-10-31 at 21:01
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The archaeology of gypsies
You've heard about the last of the Romanovs,Well, let me tell you about the last of the Romanys,
What you and me call gypsies, tinkers, travellers,
Them folk who used to wander from country to country,
Roam from town to town, village to village, looking
For somewhere to park their vehicles, to stay awhile,
To rest their weary bodies against the warmth of Mother Earth;
You remember them, don't you, kept themselves to themselves,
Wanted to be left in peace, to be... er... Romanys, to speak Romany,
To think Romany, to sing Romany, to dance Romany, to love Romany;
Sorry, got a bit carried away; where was I?
Ah yes, well the very last one has died, yes, she's gone, an old girl
Called Ruby, or was it Rosie?
Never mind, the point is that archaeologists got in
And dug up where she'd been staying, a tiny caravan site.
And do you know what they found?
Nothing, no graves, or foundations, or treasure, or anything -
Wait a minute, there was one small thing, some old seeds,
Seeds from white heather, a plant that was meant to be lucky;
The Romanys loved their white heather, sold it by the barrowful,
Spreading luck to the rest of us, as if we needed it, mind you.
Oh before I forget, that old girl's place, or should it be space,
Well, whatever, them archaeolgists have gone now
And the council are going to make it into a car park.
Chris Fernie, 2006
Poetry by Chris Fernie
Read 501 times
Written on 2006-10-31 at 21:01
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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