FIGHTING IRONS
My old gran had lots of funny names for things,
And many giggles to me those memories still bring,
Brat for apron, she insisted that the word was right
I told her it’s not in a dictionary she said they weren’t bright.
Clod hoppers for feet I could understand up to a point,
And like many of the Brits she called a roast a joint,
But one of the strangest that springs often to my mind,
Is the term of fighting irons for any cutlery I could find.,
One day setting the table and the cutlery went down,
I asked her why fighting irons, she gave me a frown,
When my boys were at home and food they didn’t eat
I threatened ‘em with knives and forks, with a spoon beat.
It wasn’t me who really started it but I soon caught on
When some sloppy tripe and onions on the table I did don,
I’d pick up a knife to threaten and a fork to give a little prod
But when she picked up the spoon they ate it with a little nod.
So that’s how fighting irons came into our vocabulary you see
And although I don’t threaten folks, the words spill out naturally,
I just can’t imagine my dad at six foot tall tow-cowing to gran
Who was only four foot five, but boney hands that could tan.
Even when they were grown men with children of their own,
Gran was the big matriarch and feared not by them alone,
But any who broke the rules and came within her scorn,
Then I can assure you, you wish you had never been born.
(Millicent) Ann Margetson 25 November 2005