Remember, as kids, you'd be yawning, And getting up, well after dawning, Then you'd put on your skates, And go with your mates, To the pictures on Saturday morning.
Everything then seemed much bigger, On the screen you would see the huge figure, Of the outlaw, the rat, (Baddies wore the black hats,) Face Roy Rogers and his faithful Trigger.
And if in the film there was kissing, All we lads would be booing and hissing, With cat calls and jeers... Only in later years, Did we realise just what we were missing.
So next came the interval break, And a Rush for the kiosk we'd make, As off we would dash, To hand over our cash, And pop-corn or ice cream we'd take.
This feast over, on with the show, But now we had missiles to throw, In the light of the screen, Balls of paper were seen, As sweet wrappers were madly let go.
It ended with SOMETHING ethereal, Flash Gordon, or some such material, And we'd all sit there rapt, As our hero was trapped At the end, 'cos that pic was the serial.
So you'd have to go back there next week, For the outcome you just had to seek...
And in this rosy haze, We remember those days, As into our memories we peek.
Tiddy.
Last updated: Tue, 14 Sep 1999.