The Ballad Of Uncle George Poem by Pamela Ann Frances Crane

Uncle George was very smelly,
Bright of eye and vast of belly,
Moving like a mighty jelly
Through the sea of our surprise.

Rolling on to pass a hundred,
‘Why is he alive? ’ we wondered,
Wincing as his bowels thundered,
Covering our furtive eyes.

Was he ever pink and tiny?
Helped to paddle in the briny?
School-excited, birthday-shiny?
How did Uncle George begin?

The baker’s wife, a trifle tipsy,
Broke her vows and jumped a gipsy.
Weathered finger to his lips, he
Sowed a secret in her skin.

Forty weeks of floaty dressing
Hid the sin at last confessing.
If it were a curse or blessing
Not an angel came to tell!

Daisy’s brat was strange and skinny,
Lost behind his mother’s pinny.
When he sang, his tone was tinny
Like a tiny cracking bell.

He could make the horses whinny,
Fondle foxes in the spinney;
All the furry things and finny
Knew the baby, knew the boy.

Coaxing some bewildered creature
Into school to meet his teacher,
Up to church to hear the preacher,
Was his mission and his joy.

All the local dogs adored him -
Ran to him and smiled and pawed him.
Human children really bored him.
He was of another kind.

Many mocked him, found him frightening,
Palms and fingers full of lightning!
Tongues were wagging, knuckles whitening -
What help could a mother find?

Down the street there lived a lady
(House and reputation shady)
Known to all as Psychic Sadie.
George and Daisy went along.

Moons and stars hung from her ceiling.
Sadie said, “You should be healing! ”
Told him that the fizzy feeling
Meant that there was something wrong,

Somebody in pain or sorrow
Needing urgently to borrow
George’s vital Chi. Tomorrow
Nobody would laugh at him.

This was quite a shock for Daisy
As her grasp of Chi was hazy.
Through her mind ran all the ways he
Might go haywire. This was grim!

George however was ecstatic;
Now his life would be dramatic.
Fasting in a rented attic
He prepared for God’s demands.

Word went out. At first a trickle
Came, of people in a pickle,
Throwing him their notes and nickel
For the magic in his hands.

Then the flood of people fighting
For a glimpse of this exciting
Youth; the cameras, the writing
In the red-tops, on the wall...

Dicky backs and laryngitis,
Measles, migraine and phlebitis,
Scrapie, glanders and arthritis -
George took on and beat them all.

Farm and zoo had found a hero,
Infestations down to zero.
Local ponds and streams ran clear - oh,
Blessings rained on George’s Chi!

He could banish coughs and sneezes
And all kinds of weird diseases.
Some believed that George was Jesus.
He was a celebrity!

George’s soul was brightly burning;
Everything he touched was turning
To pure gold. But was he learning
Vital lessons? Would he fall?

Daisy watched him at a meeting.
She could see he wasn’t eating,
And the attic had no heating.
No, he wasn’t well at all.

All the healing, touring, courses
Took their toll on his resources.
“Puddings, sausages and sauces, ”
Daisy thought, “build up a man.

But how to coax him home to feed him?
Steal him from the folk who need him?
Save my boy from those who bleed him? ”
She devised a little plan.

Three strong lads in her employment
In her debt for past enjoyment
Would abduct him. For her boy meant
Utterly the world to her.

So poor shrivelled George was taken
In the wee small hours, to waken
In his old room - very shaken,
With a soaring temperature.

(You may ask, “Where’s Mr. Daisy? ”
He was dull and frankly lazy;
Drove his wife and children crazy.
Waste of time and waste of space.

Once he had the ovens roaring
Any thought of work was boring.
Customers could hear him snoring
Through the hanky on his face.)

“Right, ” said Daisy, “Now I’ve got you
I shall be in charge of what you
Eat. You’re running far too hot. You
Need to cool it, simmer down.

Now the Press know you adore them,
They will pester. Just ignore them.
They will see there’s nothing for them,
Find some other media clown.”

What a shock to George’s ego!
Most of us unwind when we go
Convalescing - how could he go
As The Greatest Healer, sick?

Daisy locked him in, protesting.
Thirty years she kept him resting,
Systematically divesting
George of all that made him tick.

Week by week his mother’s baking,
Buns and crumpets she was making,
Gorgeous cakes and pies, were taking
Captive George to supersize.

Garlic raw with every supper,
Drops of Rescue in his cuppa,
Guaranteed to balance up a
Life devoid of exercise.

Nothing now could harm the Healer.
Daisy died, but George could feel her
Close - and then she sent him Sheila
Who would let him out again.

So many years had passed! A giant
George, both nervous and compliant
Asked if he might see a client,
Help a person in their pain.

From the ether in a vision
Daisy whispered her permission;
Strictly on the one condition -
That it must be clandestine.

Every night as owls were flying
Once again the sick and dying
Came in secret, far from prying
Eyes and ears, and stood in line

Waiting for the magic fingers,
Murmuring the words that bring us
Still the holiness that lingers.
Yards away, they caught the smell..

Ancient garlic sent them reeling;
Some would flee, but others feeling
Bold enough for George’s healing
Held their breath, and then were well.

And so was he. The Chi he gave them
Came from Paradise to save them.
Cameras? He ceased to crave them.
His reward was not to die

For twelve decades - enormous, smelly
Superstar without a telly.
Now the Bakery’s a Deli;
George a secret in the sky.