Welcome to Beastly Tales. Each has a message, a moral. All are meant to have an element of humour. Naturally, any names included do not depict real folk but are included as part of the joke.
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(As with Beastly Banter Beastly Tales is written and illustrated by Richard Hersel.)
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Richard Hersel
BEASTLY TALES
THE AMBULATOR
An ambulator is a walker you see.
If you’re unconvinced, look in the dictionary.
People walk less and less nowadays,
They fill their time in other ways.
One of the finest countries for walking.
Is Britain with miles of pathways for gawking
Cuthbert Cradshaw loved to walk country lane,
He would walk jauntily along, swinging his cane.
People would point and shout something profane,
For he simply wouldn’t look out for a train,
When crossing lines belonging to the railway, you see,
And it was not as though he was late for his tea.
Several times he just managed to scamper across,
As a locomotive roared past, the driver at a loss,
As to why a crazy loon in a funny hat,
Would take such a risk, the foolish dingbat.
Now Cuthbert had idiosyncratic notions, don’t you know.
He’d lived in Britain and was always ready to go,
To a new walking path or trail,
Such facility he’d readily avail,
Himself of, to his very great pleasure.
Which he heaped upon himself in considerable measure.
He walked the streets of Windsor, shiny with rain.
Throngs of tourists stared at him through tea shop window pane.
He took the aptly named long walk from Windsor Castle to Snow Hill,
While people stared, concluding he was a dill.
Because he wore such an unusual hat,
Children would laugh at him, and one little brat,
Threw a paper cup of something yellow,
Startling the poor unsuspecting fellow.
Unperturbed, Cuthbert strode right along.
On significant occasions he’d burst into song.
One day he came to Bournemouth, by the sea,
There was driving rain, and little to see.
He went on to Salisbury, just the right size town.
People still pointed, and called him a clown.
He trudged on to Stonehenge, a vision to see,
You know, where the giant stone circles be.
Lyme Regis and the Cotswolds lay ahead,
On a day like this, he marvelled, I wouldn’t be dead.
On and on he did trudge,
Often through slimey greasy sludge.
Until he reached a country town,
Where he decided to sit himself down.
A young lady came up to where he sat,
And stared for a moment at his funny hat.
He enquired of her the way to Minehead,
She continued to stare, and then she said,
“Oh, you won’t be gittin to Moinhead, my dear”,
“No you won’t, not this toim of year”,
“No busses to Moinhead arter firarst of Octobarrr!”
“The only way be to drive a car”,
“Or walk ‘cos it be not too far”.
Cuthbert asked if she would like a drink,
“Oi be drinkin coider, oi think”,
“They may be still soiving, they may be, they may”.
“Although, can’t be sartin, they may be, not today.”
Cuthbert now decided to get up and go,
He’d had enough of this coider drinking weirdo.
The “lady” rocked back and forth,
And then shrieked aloud, for all she was worth,
“You promised me to marry me you did”,
Cuthbert realized she was not the full quid.
She screeched many other things after retreating Cuthbert,
Saying things and calling names that would hurt.
Such salacious allegations he wanted to leave right behind
But when town folk rushed out he saw he was in a bind.
“What is the problem, Daisy my dear?”
Asked the shopkeeper who was standing quite near.
“Did this rapscallion cause you any harm?”
He interrogated her thus, in great alarm.
Meanwhile, Cuthbert had increased his pace from ambulatory amble,
To a fast run, through hedge and sharp bramble.
The angry town folk were in hot pursuit,
Ready to dish out to Cuthbert the fist and the boot!
Cuthbert did eventually get away,
Declaring himself an armchair traveller from that very day.
