Mrs Hobbo’s Pressie
Mrs Hobbo's Pressie
Mrs Hobbo were coming up forty,
A delicate age for a girl,
When bits of the body head southwards
And trimmings begin to unfurl.
To say she were touchy about it
Would only be tellin' the truth.
Hobbo needed to buy, summat special
To capture t'old lady's lost youth.
His brains, Hobbo racked for a fortneet,
What little he 'ad, any road,
Till Dauphy Dog come to the rescue,
Wi' a perfect idea, a la mode.
Sexy lingerie, that were the answer,
That's posh talk for knickers and bras.
Much better than Hobbo's suggestion
Of scotch and a box of cigars.
There were only one shop in all Keighley,
What 'ad necess'ry clout and finesse,
The shop were of course Mark's and Spencer's
What customers call M and S.
Hobbo, was required to do research,
Before he set foot in the store,
So, he waited till missus was shoppin'
Then rooted round 'knicker-wear drawer.
For her knickers, she'd need a size ten
And her bras were a thirty six C,
But I don't think she'd want that made public,
So, we'll keep it, between thee and me.
One bright early morning, in Winter
Hobbo sneaked 'issen in M and S.
He'd never bought undies before this,
And were under considerable stress.
Furtively looking about 'im,
He took from a pile, a wire basket.
Being virgin, he needed directions,
Being a man, he didn't dare ask it.
Finally, in 'knicker department,
And gobsmacked that there was so much
choice, he made 'is selection,
By looking, reluctant to touch.
Once he 'ad sussed what he wanted,
He bunged it in 'basket, right quick,
Walked to checkouts at far side of store,
Beginning to feel a bit sick.
By now, a long queue started building
As he waited to pay for 'is wares,
And Hobbo grew redder and redder,
Attractin' some giggles and stares.
Eventually, red as a beetroot,
He made it to front o' the queue,
And a glamorous girl on the checkout
Began putting 'purchases through.
By 'olding each item up caref'lly,
She checked all the sizes again,
Says,"Some of these knickers are twelves,
And some as you've picked, are a ten."
Ten is 'right size muttered Hobbo,
So she hands all the twelves to her mate,
To change at the far side of store,
As 'queue behind's getting irate.
Full forty yards, top of her voice,
Yells, "We don't have the tens in a white.
We 'ave got, grey, green or raspberry.
Would any of these be alright?"
Holding each item aloft,
For Hobbo to choose, mortified,
He mumbles that any will do,
And the queue behind Hobbo all sighed.
Luckily folks started laughing,
Not Hobbo, he wanted to hide,
Though once he were safely back home,
He started to see 'funny side.
Mrs Hobbo were pleased with her pressie,
Expecting, like last year, some socks,
But the next time that she 'ad a birthday,
She 'ad to make do wi' some chocs.