Big Phil

Big Phil

Today is not just Halloween! Today is also my Dad’s birthday! My Dad is genuinely the loveliest bloke that ever existed but can give the impression of being extremely intimidating and frightening. We call this scary gangster alter ego ‘Big Phil’. So watch out this Halloween! There may be something a lot worse than a zombie waiting in the streets of London.

He’s actually 51 this year but I’ve been thinking about this poem since his last birthday so one line is slightly dated. You wouldn’t think it had taken that long to write judging by the quality. In fact, that’s pretty much the only line that has survived from so long ago. Anyhow. Here it is:

Big Phil

A heart of gold, an iron fist
He’ll kiss your head then break your wrist
With words that comfort, eyes that kill
It’s him, the man, the boss, Big Phil

His family’s his pride and joy
(His second son’s his favourite boy)
Against them, he won’t hear a word
And if he does, his wrath’s incurred

He knows this city like the back of his hand
And so, before him few can stand
Faced with his hat and long black coat
Defiant words stick in their throat

Without a word, he shuts them down
They flutter like an eiderdown
Dissolving in a pool of tears
He’s ruled these streets for 50 years


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