RRRBBQDay2014_046The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Groups of Women“.

 

 

 

 

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Groups of Women

The Bunyin Hill Bowls Club was a hot bed of dissention
Rows of pink and blue Hydrangeas couldn’t mask the tension

“Sexual tension” sneered Bert Fibbs, President and main offender
It had nought to do with sexual and all to do with gender

Only males could be full members; the source of many fights
Females deemed “associates”; therefore no voting rights

The women kept the club afloat, by any way of thinking
They did all the work while the men just stood round drinking

You could park three semi trailers in the men’s changing rooms
While the women’s digs were smaller than the closet for the brooms

The women called for change and had support throughout the town
Each time they raised the subject though the men would vote it down

Gwen Sibbley, ladies captain, tried to thrash out a solution
Bert Fibbs just shrugged his shoulders “Blame the constitution”

“Let’s go on strike” barked Olwyn Cox “they’d soon screw up the place”
“Why cut our noses off” sighed Gwen “just to spite their face?”

Instead, Gwen sort the rule book; carefully studied all the pages
Found reference to a clause dating from the middle ages

Though archaic it appeared they had not repealed the rule
“Any player hath dishonoreth may challageth to a duel”

Bert roared with laughter; the challenge couldn’t be declined
He was fighting, after all, for the honour of menkind

If Bert won, Gwen’s resignation would be tendered there and then
If he lost, the women would rank equal with the men

Resplendent in their whites, brimmed hats and flattened soles
Instead of swords or bullets, their weapons would be bowls

They’d face off at twenty paces; you forfeit if you cheat
You can bowl with either hand but you must not move your feet

You nominate one foot to be your proxy jack
Bert would send the first one down then Gwen would send one back

Four bowls each; no dead ends; a second in each camp
The bowler closest to the foot would then be crowned the champ

Bert opened with a backhand draw, five centimetres short
“There’s the winner” chuckled Bert; that’s what most observers thought

But Gwen drew the perfect bowl; it came within a ml
Bert slowly slid his foot back, a boots length from the pill

Gwen protested vigorously but the refs denied her plea
Both umps, of course, were male and claimed they didn’t see

One bowl left, Bert holding shot, the end was still alive
Bert thought he’d do some damage and decided he would drive

It slammed into Gwen’s ankle but she didn’t even flinch
The bowl had failed to move her foot a poofteenth of an inch

Gwen responded with a full toss aimed at Bert’s substantial guts
He tried to stand up on his toes and it slammed into his nuts

Bert tumbled back ten meters, arse up on the green
Gwen eyeballed the ref “Think his feet moved, know what I mean?”

The umpires had no choice but disqualify poor Bert
Although upset to lose the bowls it was his balls that really hurt

Gwen knelt beside poor Bert, who was writhing in the ditch
She whispered in his ear “Now tell me who’s the bitch”

The women gained full membership, Gwen saw the motion moved
Despite Bert’s dire predictions things actually improved

Misogony, homophobia, racism swiftly breeds
A garden left uncared for quickly fills with weeds

It takes vigilance on all sides; commitment, not merely token
For a wedge is driven deep every time a trust is broken

Even lawn bowls, a genteel sport can yield a poisonous fruit
Prejudice, like cancer, cares not where it takes root

© Copyright 2015 Ian Bland


Also have a listen to the songs on the New Album “Angel In Reverse

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