Charles Heathcote | Bury Me In My Wellies by Charles Heathcote | National Poetry Day 2023 @CharlesHeathcote | Uploaded October 2023 | Updated October 2024, 2 hours ago.
Sharing an original poem of mine.
National Poetry Day: nationalpoetryday.co.uk
I’ve had this pain in my side for a while
that twists my guts like twine.
I planned to see the doctor,
but I couldn’t find the time.
I’d sheep in need of worming,
foot-rotting, that sort of thing
I could’ve asked my son
but he’s got no time for farming.
Well now it’s two in the morning
and my side it don’t half hurt
like I’ve just been gored by a Jacob’s horn
and it’s torn right through my shirt.
I’ve called the paramedics,
they say they’re on their way
but if they don’t get here in time,
I’ve just one thing to say:
Bury me in my wellies
they’re all I’ve ever known
and if there is an afterlife
I want to feel at home.
There’s souls that need a shepherd
and they will flock to me so
bury me in my wellies
beneath the old yew tree.
The pain isn’t going anywhere,
but I’ve made it down the stairs
hopefully no one minds
finding me in my underwear.
I’ll put on my coat and wellies
and switch on the porch light;
if it’s my time for dying
then I’m going to do it right.
Well the paramedics are here in ten,
and they’re prodding me like I’m Play-Doh
asking questions, attaching machines as
my son arrives for the floorshow.
He’s by my side with his fretting,
he’s worried and he’s stressed
so I take his hand in mine
and make my final request:
Bury me in my wellies
they’re all I’ve ever known
and if there is an afterlife
I want to feel at home.
There’s souls that need a shepherd
and they will flock to me so
bury me in my wellies
beneath the old yew tree.
I’m in the ambulance in quick-sticks
and rushed down to A&E
they’re saying it’s an hiatus hernia
which I thought was a fallacy.
They take me off to theatre
with no time for a brew
gone like a shot, out like a light,
before I could refuse.
I open my eyes to bright white
and my side still aches a bit,
that’s supposed to go away in Heaven
so I guess I must have lived.
My son, he sits across from me
as concerned as his mother
who passed over twenty years ago.
I thought I was off to meet her.
Still, my time it isn’t far away
and when it comes, I ask that you
Bury me in my wellies
they’re all I’ve ever known
and if there is an afterlife
I want to feel at home.
There’s souls that need a shepherd
and they will flock to me so
bury me in my wellies
beneath the old yew tree.
Copyright Charles Heathcote 2023
From my debut poetry collection, Shepherd's Delight. Available now.
Shepherd's Delight: tinyurl.com/3tjcc9u7
My books are available to purchase from variousaltitudes.com/books
Our Doris: amzn.to/2SKJioK
Indisputably Doris: amzn.to/2RADf53
Doris Ahoy: amzn.to/2ks33Fl
Royally Doris: bit.ly/3L00y5g
An Heir to Murder: bit.ly/2Svpjev
Stock footage, courtesy of videvo.net
Keep in touch:
Support an indie author: ko-fi.com/charlesheathcote
Email: charles@variousaltitudes.com
Facebook: facebook.com/variousaltitudes
Twitter: twitter.com/C_Heathcote
Instagram: instagram.com/charles.heathcote
Goodreads: bit.ly/2AAVmAW
uk.bookshop.org/shop/charlesheathcote
About Me:
I was born in Macclesfield and very rarely leave. I mainly discuss books on this channel but every now and then something else will slip through the net. I'm interested in most fiction, and enjoy books that tell stories about older characters as I feel they're often under represented in literature. Lately, I've become interesting in telling and discovering working class tales.
I have a BA in Creative Writing and have been the secretary to the Macclesfield Creative Writing Group since 2011. In 2015 I independently published my first book Our Doris. The book follows the eponymous Mrs Doris Copeland, atomic housewife, with a rock bun recipe that can make even the most secure dentures shudder. There are three sequels, Indisputably Doris, Doris Ahoy, and Royally Doris.
In 2020 I released An Heir to Murder, the first in a cosy crime series featuring Alice Valentine.
Sharing an original poem of mine.
National Poetry Day: nationalpoetryday.co.uk
I’ve had this pain in my side for a while
that twists my guts like twine.
I planned to see the doctor,
but I couldn’t find the time.
I’d sheep in need of worming,
foot-rotting, that sort of thing
I could’ve asked my son
but he’s got no time for farming.
Well now it’s two in the morning
and my side it don’t half hurt
like I’ve just been gored by a Jacob’s horn
and it’s torn right through my shirt.
I’ve called the paramedics,
they say they’re on their way
but if they don’t get here in time,
I’ve just one thing to say:
Bury me in my wellies
they’re all I’ve ever known
and if there is an afterlife
I want to feel at home.
There’s souls that need a shepherd
and they will flock to me so
bury me in my wellies
beneath the old yew tree.
The pain isn’t going anywhere,
but I’ve made it down the stairs
hopefully no one minds
finding me in my underwear.
I’ll put on my coat and wellies
and switch on the porch light;
if it’s my time for dying
then I’m going to do it right.
Well the paramedics are here in ten,
and they’re prodding me like I’m Play-Doh
asking questions, attaching machines as
my son arrives for the floorshow.
He’s by my side with his fretting,
he’s worried and he’s stressed
so I take his hand in mine
and make my final request:
Bury me in my wellies
they’re all I’ve ever known
and if there is an afterlife
I want to feel at home.
There’s souls that need a shepherd
and they will flock to me so
bury me in my wellies
beneath the old yew tree.
I’m in the ambulance in quick-sticks
and rushed down to A&E
they’re saying it’s an hiatus hernia
which I thought was a fallacy.
They take me off to theatre
with no time for a brew
gone like a shot, out like a light,
before I could refuse.
I open my eyes to bright white
and my side still aches a bit,
that’s supposed to go away in Heaven
so I guess I must have lived.
My son, he sits across from me
as concerned as his mother
who passed over twenty years ago.
I thought I was off to meet her.
Still, my time it isn’t far away
and when it comes, I ask that you
Bury me in my wellies
they’re all I’ve ever known
and if there is an afterlife
I want to feel at home.
There’s souls that need a shepherd
and they will flock to me so
bury me in my wellies
beneath the old yew tree.
Copyright Charles Heathcote 2023
From my debut poetry collection, Shepherd's Delight. Available now.
Shepherd's Delight: tinyurl.com/3tjcc9u7
My books are available to purchase from variousaltitudes.com/books
Our Doris: amzn.to/2SKJioK
Indisputably Doris: amzn.to/2RADf53
Doris Ahoy: amzn.to/2ks33Fl
Royally Doris: bit.ly/3L00y5g
An Heir to Murder: bit.ly/2Svpjev
Stock footage, courtesy of videvo.net
Keep in touch:
Support an indie author: ko-fi.com/charlesheathcote
Email: charles@variousaltitudes.com
Facebook: facebook.com/variousaltitudes
Twitter: twitter.com/C_Heathcote
Instagram: instagram.com/charles.heathcote
Goodreads: bit.ly/2AAVmAW
uk.bookshop.org/shop/charlesheathcote
About Me:
I was born in Macclesfield and very rarely leave. I mainly discuss books on this channel but every now and then something else will slip through the net. I'm interested in most fiction, and enjoy books that tell stories about older characters as I feel they're often under represented in literature. Lately, I've become interesting in telling and discovering working class tales.
I have a BA in Creative Writing and have been the secretary to the Macclesfield Creative Writing Group since 2011. In 2015 I independently published my first book Our Doris. The book follows the eponymous Mrs Doris Copeland, atomic housewife, with a rock bun recipe that can make even the most secure dentures shudder. There are three sequels, Indisputably Doris, Doris Ahoy, and Royally Doris.
In 2020 I released An Heir to Murder, the first in a cosy crime series featuring Alice Valentine.
