(I worked as a custodian for several years, and wrote this poem about my I boss and fellow employees in 1998. It is inspired by the poem: The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert W. Service)
There are stories told in bathrooms cold, in the land of the pale blue sun.
And I wouldn’t swear, on the book for most, but I sure would for this one.
It tells of a grey ol’ grizzled cuss, not hell nor heaven sent.
Hard work had long deployed his joints, his bone-racked back, long bent.
Most of the time his “Q’s” he’d mind, and you’d never know he’d been,
‘Cept the endless halls and graffiti walls were washed and spotless clean.
A custodial ghost, one could say at most, with a cold light in his eye.
A hint of scent where ‘ere he went, let you know he lingered by.
The legend goes, if you catch the ghost and wrestle him to the ground,
You could force a wish from his cursed lips, he’d grant it, and he was bound.
But the ghost was smart as a stripling fox. His temper as mean as sin.
Many a man had tried, but failed, to hold or take him in.
Well me, and a couple of P.M. boys, while out on the grounds one day,
Was talking it up, when it came over our minds, like the smell of new mowed hay.
We’d have him on, our will was strong, without a fear of dying.
We’d tear our wish from his dust clogged lips – or perish in the trying.
So there we dreamed while we hatched our scheme, the nor’ lights flashing bold,
Four fools crazed with the plan that blazed in our mind like the lure of gold.
We laid it out from stem to stern, with warning wires and lights.
Said good-bye to kin and settled in, and stocked for a hundred nights.
On the chapel room rug, where the noise of a bug, kept our nerves as tight as a drum,
We was scarce half-awake, but sure that our fate and our future life was all done.
When Bob’s piercing scream warned it wasn’t a dream, so we took in our last long breath.
“There he stands me boys, in his hobbledeehoyes, as cold and pale as death.”
There in the light, stood a terrible sight, I’ve barely the wit for recalling.
His face was stark, his eyes red dark, his breath down right appalling.
I was froze to the spot, and believe it or not, I would have run but I couldn’t.
It was, “Grab him now or forever give up,” and that’s when I vowed that I wouldn’t.
“Grab him Quick” responded Nick. We exploded from our post,
With fists and feet, we’d make mincemeat of this or any Ghost.
Our muscled cracked, our joints we fracked, he threw us off like burs.
But one by one, we grabbed, we hung, till awful was his curse.
And there we stayed until he swayed of strength and power divested.
The prize we sought, we claimed our lot, our nemesis we bested.
Then closer in his darkened face, we gasped as we did stare.
The unmistakable countenance of Richard R.J. Haire!
We knew he prowled the Surrey halls, and dabbled now and then.
But this was it, the profile fit, WE HAD OUR GHOST, AMEN.
I clutched his throat with vise like grip, we’d come too far by now.
We couldn’t let the rascal win, we’d cook his goose somehow.
Ice hung upon his every word, we’d mine them too, with sluice.
“You’ll have yer chance to dance, me lads, think hard before you choose.”
“I’ll take looks.” “For me it’s books.” And then our breath we caught,
“Two wishes from four , you’ve just two more. You’re easier than I thought.”
“Let’s all relax in Cadillac’s, where tropic warm winds blow.”
With a flick of his hand, we was in Caribbean land, with only one wish to go.
Now I’ve watched the way the ice worms play. Been snookered by the best.
Seen fortunes tossed and fortunes lost, seen cards on a dead man’s chest.
“I’ll take this wish, ” almost feverish, says I anteing up the game.
“And for these mate, this wish I make, all get the very same.”
All mouths aghast we stood at last, no one breathed a breath.
We had him bound, with no way round, he’ll pay us or face death.
Here’s the wish: We want a niche in a nice warm place, to choose.
Whether come or go, sun or snow, or whether we read or snooze.
Some chores to do, but precious few, with space and trees and grass.
Not a shabby shack in the way out back. A big one, with lots of class.
Where money appears, with no arrears, in a bank with our own account,
A stove and fridge, both ’bout average, to hold food of any amount.
Now if you can find some thing of its kind, then make it a place for four.
With a sneer and a twist of his gnarly old wrist – we were back on the chapel room floor!
In total surprise, we assessed our demise, how we’d come to this paradox,
Where we’d been had and brutally bad by this crafty and cunning ol’ fox.
In a flash is was clear, cause his motive I fear, had a devious predisposition.
For the things we had asked, totally matched, our “custodial job description.”
There are strange tales told, in washrooms cold, in the land of the pale blue sun,
And I wouldn’t swear on the Book for most, but I sure would ’bout this one.
So here I stay on custodial pay and I pray I never hear more,
Of that crafty ol’ host, the custodial ghost, and that night on the chapel room floor.
-Doug Garrett