Me and the Lads are working the night shift
in a frozen food factory
somewhere in the south of England
in the time before the time.
It’s an historic night
the English public is about to be introduced
to frozen broccoli for the first time
and we are there, knives ready
waiting for those dark green clusters
to tumble from the hopper onto the conveyor belt.
Our mission, which we have accepted for a minimum wage,
is to chop those clusters into bite-sized florets
and send them on their way
to be blanched, frozen and packaged.

And the dark green river flows
and the dark green river flows.

Truth is, few of us have seen broccoli before,
it not been one of the meat and two veg
that we were brought up on
but we do know that Albert R Broccoli
is the producer of James Bond movies
so we while away the time
making up names for Bond girls
mostly variations on Pussy Galore –
Puss Ann Boots
Holly Goodsnatch –
puerile nonsense, I know,
(from the Latin ‘ puer’ meaning ‘boy’)
and that’s what we were really, boys.

And the dark green river flows
and the dark green river flows.

Two hours in, we’re getting bored
and uncut broccoli is starting to pile up
at the dam at the end of the conveyor.
Reg, our supervisor, tries some positive reinforcement.
He calls us “a bunch of useless wankers”,
picks up his knife
and starts chopping like a man possessed.
Inspired by Reg, we pick up the pace
and as the pile up at the dam clears
Reg, who is tall, skinny and prematurely balding,
starts to tell us about his sex life:
quickies with his next-door neighbor
foursomes on the weekend
with the neighbors on the other side
knee tremblers in the alley behind the pub
at closing time .
And we’re lucky, he says,
because we can go home at shift end and sleep
but his wife is mad for it and he has to, you know, perform.
We spend some time reflecting on Reg’s definition of ‘lucky’.
He then alludes to the dimensions
of his dingus, his dong, his John Thomas,
dimensions an elephant would be proud of,
which prompts us to shake our knives in his direction
and Dec from Dublin says:
“keep it in your pants, Reg,
safety is job one”.
Reg blushes shyly and for a brief moment
he is one of the lads.
It can be lonely at the top.

And the dark green river flows
and the dark green river flows.

After what seems like an eternity
shift end approaches
and the sun peeks over the red-tiled roof tops
of this musn’t grumble town
and we’re thinking of heading back to our digs
maybe stealing a few milk bottles
from doorsteps on the way, when
Rob, from Liverpool, looks up from the broccoli
And says “Dawn Horne”
We say “what?”
He says, “the Bond girl name, Dawn Horne”.
We say “yes, that’s it, that’s it”.
And for a moment we bask in the joy
of the collective creative process.

And the dark green river flows
and the dark green river flows.

Note: The rules of The Lad’s Poetry Project are simple:

The poem must start with the phrase (or some variation of it): “Me and the lads…” and the tone must be somewhat less than elevated.

Taking Part in OpenLink over at dverse