‘Masks’: A Poem by Jeff Eardley

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Masks

When tourists arrive in our village,
The question that most of them ask,
Is, “Why is it all of your menfolk,
Are walking around wearing masks?”

Well, it started way back in the sixties,
While their husbands were down at the pub.
Their wives and their partners had started,
A Friday night literature club.

This reading became an obsession,
As the oil around midnight was burned,
As many a novel was got through,
And many a page there got turned.

Now some of them got in the habit,
Of reading quite late in the night,
As they sat up in bed in their curlers,
With the light up above shining bright.

As midnight was striking, their men-folk,
Their bellies all swelled up with beer,
Would stagger their way to the bedroom,
Crying, “Please put that light out my dear.”

“Now shut your fat gob up, I’m reading,”
Was the rude and discourteous reply.
“If you’re wanting some sleep, then you’d better,
Put this mask on to cover your eyes.”

So now, in the Tavern, you’ll find them,
Their eyes full of hatred and menace.
Like a bunch of Victorian hangmen,
Or a Carnival party from Venice,

So please take a note of this story.
Avoid all the pain, grief and sorrow.
Don’t marry a girl from my village,
Or you might end up looking like Zorro.

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Jeff Eardley lives in the heart of England near to the Peak District National Park and is a local musician playing guitar, mandolin and piano steeped in the music of America, including the likes of Ry Cooder, Paul Simon, and particularly Hank Williams.