Injun Summer Part Three

Across the bridge we turned now to the West Following the Ribble on its journey to the coast. A mile or so along a metalled road And then along a dusty track we strode, Ever watchful for an ambush to repel. None came that day, and if I tell The truth none ever came, only strangers With their dogs and occasional anglers. We let them pass without a single slaying. Some Injuns we! We never did no scalping! But it was fun to think what might have been Even if we were softer than whipped Ice-cream. Our usual destination was as a a rule A place we called our Little Blackpool. The soil was sandy here and usually quite dry Room for our camp and room to lie Upon the soft white sand beside the shore. Upon the way we'd picked up twigs galore To make our fire and some dry grass for tinder. We'd post a lookout on the bank, our minder, Usually Gordon whom we didn't really like, Whilst we set to raise the Wigwam, spike The pegs until it looked quite straight And built the bonfire up until it looked quite neat.