All he was good at...
When Robin Banks were nought but a small boy,
In short-leg trousers and public school cap,
They pondered what source of gainful employ
There could be for such a talentless chap.
Assiduously able to destroy
Any project on which his hand did clap,
His genius often would they deploy
To chores they'd not mind when he caused mishap.
He tried his hand at countless professions
But somehow he lacked the requisite nous
To make any kind of good impressions,
Successive bosses their ardour he'd douse
Through incompetence and indiscretions.
He chopped the wrong trees and milked the wrong cows,
He'd clear the wrong house in repossessions -
He seemed clearly destined for the workhouse.
One day a gent in sharp suit and cravate
Rode into town on a shiny black steed,
Burst in the saloon and took off his hat
And with his stashed cash "Free bar!" he decreed.
He worked round the punters, charming with chat.
When Robin he met his long face queried,
"I'm Robin Banks," Rob said, "All I'm good at..."
"What luck!" the gent exclaimed, "Just what I need."
Rob listened with awe as the gent relayed
Tales which were surely pure fabrication,
Of adventure and crime, handsomely paid,
which he soon was to find weren't invention.
Reckless natured, a good gangster he made,
So hungry to get retaliation,
The town's folk who'd scorned him were now afraid.
He'd finally found his true vocation.
Storm Room - Janet Cardiff & George Bures Miller
7 years ago