Â鶹ԼÅÄ

The Ballad of Matt Crawford
18 Oct 2001

by Tessa Ing

As Tessa says, "T S Elliot didn't just write The Wasteland, you know."

Matt Crawford was a barrowboy out looking for Respect
His tie was wide, his shirts were striped, his suits were loud and checked
From Darrington to Ambridge he pursued his evil plan
To lord it in the shires and to call the Squire "my man".

He shot the birds, he hooked the fish and looked around for more
'Cos he knew that proper gentry have a proper taste for gore
He had no time for patience, he believed in grab and smash
He liked to count his acres and he loved to count his cash.

'Twas on a balmy summer's night he made his fatal play
To blackmail lovely Debbie into rolling in the hay
"You know that contract farming? Well unless you see me right
You'll lose the lot. And Brian's face won't be a pretty sight."

But Debs was made of sterner stuff than Matt had calculated.
Her honour for the contract? the two could not be related.
She told him where to get off and she flashed her eyes with scorn
She pointed to the exit and commanded Matt "Be gorn!"

The Board discussed the contract. Matt made sure that Â鶹ԼÅÄ Farm lost
And he hugged himself and giggled at their tractor and its cost
And Debs was filled with loathing for the little jumped up squirt
And she vowed she'd have her vengeance and she vowed she'd make it hurt.

It was Chris who found the mantrap, making ready for the move;
It was George who hid and set it, for he had his point to prove;
It was Brian who - just casually - let slip about the boar;
And Greg who took Matt stalking; well, now, could you ask for more?

Matt pressed hard through the undergrowth, all eager for the kill,
With Greg at heel to call him "sir" - his favourite sort of thrill.
He didn't look behind, he didn't catch the gleam of eyes,
And when he sprang the mantrap - that was a complete surprise.

The snap, the crunch, the scream - the scream, the scream went on and on
And to the listening villagers it sang the sweetest song.
A single smile swept over them, stood silent in a ring
Round Matt who crouched and gripped his leg and groaned like anything.

O there was joy in Ambridge when the news flew through the vale.
The Bull and Cat & Fiddle laid in double stocks of ale.
The annual Flower and Produce was the best there'd ever been,
With, best of all, the wickerman Debs lit upon the Green.