King of Peterborough
Once upon a time...
In a magic London overspill town, edged by flat, fertile farmland.
There lived 'fen tigers' who built roundhouses by hand.
They forged a place with markets, stories and a railway line.
It created a footie team that was posh and a basilica divine.
Then in the year 1960 AD, this hamlet decided to be a city.
Passed from council, to charter and committee.
Then the construction of palaces began where folk could belong.
They called them the Ortons in water,brimbles, gold and long.
Here in these districts people called 'commuters' did dwell.
And here on a road called Oundle a tramp cast a spell.
No person knew from whence he came or how his story began.
Yet only that he lived in a bus shelter, half unicorn, half man.
Garbed in a murky mac and trousers held with abracadabra string.
His voice was soft, tinged with the shores of the highland fling.
With a beard that grew to the floor and hair in the shape of a crowned king.
He crossed the lines between legend and what the real world could bring.
This drifter would watch our little lives go by from his opulent shed.
As we travelled to work,school and home along the familiar tread.
He would forage on the luxuries of our streets and their rubbish coffers.
Too proud to accept charity or people's tender offers.
Many tales spun their way around him, inventing a new found fame.
All topped off with the spray painted 'Nobby' that became his name.
He saved young princesses from mugging and castles from fire.
His strong noble presence in vagrancy was hard not to admire.
This unsought Caesar would receive Yuletide gifts from kin all around.
From large stuffed white rabbits to whisky bottles coloured light brown.
He became jam packed as a teddy bear with the Xmas dinners he collected.
All of the boroughs loved him and would not let him be neglected.
One fearful day a dragon called 'local yobs' burned down his kingdom and realm.
And he suffered arrows of pain in his legs and the winter wind began to overwhelm.
This sultan of hearts disappeared from his princely cabin and out of view.
To folklore and all goodness that a community could imbue.
Even though their Nobby no longer guards the roads or sits in their square.
He haunts the people's memories and the treetops and the thin air.
Reminds them of another time where a vagabond could reign.
And they wonder if they will ever see his tall graceful frame again.
So remember with them his myths and fables untold.
Be reassured that their love he surely does withhold.
So join me in a toast to the hobo who became the King of Oundle road.
To Nobby the Tramp, his saga and his humble abode in this city he called home.