One of my other passions of life has dominated the last couple of weeks. Much as I love the infinite variety of CP I do, like most folks who play this delightful game, occasionally have other interests. We aren't always dropping our pants or, in my case, writing about it. But as the personal highlights of March fade and Easter beckons, thoughts turn to other things. I shall enjoy the rising temperatures, the spring flowers, and Easter eggs in all their colourful variety. And I shall particularly enjoy the thought of a pending visit to a very special scholastic establishment. Miss Marmaduke-Smythe will not be there but, hopefully, there will be someone like her. Being spanked, bare bottom in the air, is great fun at my age. This simple poem is meant in the same vein. More serious stuff will follow when I get my breath back.
Most of the folk from the village
Remembered Miss Marmaduke-Smythe.
The butcher, the baker, the Lord of the Manor,
His daughter, his son and his wife.
The girl from the tea shop, the boy from the farm,
The doctor who tended all ills.
The vandal now stuck in a far away prison.
And the chemist dispensing his pills.
All on the day she was buried
Remembered Miss Marmaduke-Smythe.
For this little old lady of ninety
Had figured in each village life.
For forty seven years she had taught them
Instructed in body and mind.
And all had a time, not forgotten,
When her hand slapped their bare behind.
For Miss Marmaduke-Smythe was old fashioned
Gentle and firm by degrees.
When good she would smile and encourage
When bad you went over her knees,
In her twenties the butcher and baker
Bared all to her scholarly frown.
And on the week she retired, past seventy,
Three more had their pants taken down.
Aged five to eleven she had taught them
In Empire, mathematics and sums.
The good were praised with a passion,
The bad felt the pain on their bums.
So there was hardly a child in that village
Who had not journeyed across her lap.
Being good all the while was demanding
And being bad only got you a slap.
Or so thought the lad from the farmyard
And the shopgirl now serving the teas.
For Miss Marmaduke-Smythe, near retirement,
Spanked both when they severely displeased.
And she did it while one watched the other,
Reasoning as bottoms were bared.
For indelicate comparing of each others parts,
Why should your blushes be spared?
The girl screamed and stamped as her bottom
Was smacked with a venom severe.
While the boy rubbed his stern as he waited his turn
And prayed that no one could hear.
The last who incurred her displeasure
Was the vandal now locked in a cell.
A boy unappealing, she spanked him for stealing
Three books and the old school bell.
None had reached ten when she whacked them
Bottom raised high and nose near the floor.
Although Parsons the Chemist yearns still for such days.
Most unseemly when aged thirty four
But many remember with kindness,
Miss Mabel Marmaduke-Smythe.
Be they the Lord or Doctor or Butcher
Or the Lord of the Manor’s wife.
For there was none she feared nor favoured,
Rich or poor you were treated the same.
And if you displeased and went over her knees.
You had only yourself to blame.
And as they lowered her to rest at ninety,
The gentle Miss Mabel Marmaduke-Smythe.
All in the village remembered.
Her first bare bottom spank in their life.
And they feared for the angels in heaven
And prayed they would always be good.
Alfred Roy © 2008