Thursday, 10 January 2013


The year was 1929,
It was the eighteenth day,
The month was March, the week began
In a most unusual way.

For that’s when Denis John was born
Into the Perkins’ fold,
And rumour says that this fine babe
A sight was, to behold.

After his education gained,
Comptometers, built he,
With no job satisfaction,
He yearned authority.

At twenty five he wed his bride,
His childhood sweetheart fair,
And in his eyes, ’twas plain to see
That love was in the air.

And so a uniform he donned,
For R.A.F. and Police,
He loved the thought of having power,
And also, keeping peace.

Now for the I.P.A. he worked.
And traveled to and fro,      
In nineteen sixty seven, moved     
Into Ontario.

With family reared and grandkids,       
At sixty five, retired,  
Memories to look back on, of
The life he had acquired

Now “Pretty Polly Perkins”
Aint so little anymore,
We send congratulations,
For he now has reached four score.
                                            Colin Ross