The Reel Whirled Poem by Jerry Pike

Two bob, and sixpence, half a crown,
in the beginning, gunning down,
Red Indians, save the cavalry,
cheer up and shriek for history.

Ice cream in cornets, popcorn boxed,
Kiora spilt, attendants foxed.
And there from out the dark of day,
soft children shiver with dismay.

Pretence for velvet, crushed below,
steer past those knees, and boldly go,
along row G, right to the aisle,
sit down and ease your weight-a-while.

Dark curtain red, all swish and speed,
pull back and let the film proceed,
bring horrors there, across my sight,
Oh Lord, the spooks are out tonight.

I didn’t pray for Frankenstein,
or any other freak of mind,
Lon Chainey howling at the moon,
while Vincent Price is caping soon.

From my creation, at the flicks,
the point to which I cannot fix,
lookout, the stomachs churning fear,
I wish we’d never bunked in here.