Always puffing on a pipe
You'd see him pedal his old bike,
Tattered old jacket in faded tweed
Trouser bottoms tied with twine,
Arsoowal's trade was catching rats.
He must have had a proper name
When he was christened as a child
But if he had, we didn't know it.
His naming ceremony came
That day we saw him riding down
The village street, apparently alight.
Smoke billowed from his trousers where
He'd stuffed his lighted baccy pipe.
'Mister, mister! ' we all called
'There's smoke coming out of your trousers! '
In scornful disbelief he turned
And mouthed at us one word—'Arsoowals! '
Pete Crowther
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-yorkshire-ratcatcher/
