I hereby declare this is the last but one
will and testament of Brian Herbert Bilston.
The full contents of my kitchen drawer,
some string, a spoon, a broken straw,
I bequeath to cousin Theodore.
My 1982 Trevor Francis Football Annual,
(contains a profile of his cocker spaniel),
I bequeath to my nephew, Daniel.
A pristine edition of Naomi Campbell’s Swan,
unread, unopened, with its cellophane on,
I bequeath to my strange Uncle Ron.
My signed photo of Sharon Davies,
which was blu-tacked to my wall for ages,
I bequeath to dear Auntie Mavis.
My belly button fluff (March 86 to June 89),
a particularly favourite crop of mine,
I bequeath to cousin Caroline.
Nik Kershaw’s The Riddle on twelve inch vinyl,
once accidentally dropped in a pub urinal,
I bequeath to my best friend Lionel.
My poems, my novels and other writing,
all those endless hours of typing,
I bequeath to the bin for recycling.
Scouring charity shops
for Mike’s secret santa gift,
Sandra was surprised to stumble
across a Nik Kershaw in Age Concern.
It was a riddle as to how
he had ended up there.
Sandra guessed that, at some stage,
he must have been in the shop window,
for he was slightly yellowed as if
the sun had gone down upon him many times.
But, upon closer inspection,
he looked to be in good working order,
a little musty, perhaps, but not too rusty.
Wouldn’t it be good, she thought,
to buy him, take him home
and see how he scrubs up.
What’s more, she still had money to spare
from her five pounds allowance
with which to purchase
Get Fit With The Green Goddess
on video cassette.
Mike was overwhelmed by his gifts,
particularly the Nik Kershaw
(owning, as he already did,
a Howard Jones and that
drummer from Culture Club).
Sandra herself got a scented candle.