T'was Christmas Eve at the Salvage Yard, and the snow was falling thick,
A glistening snow-white blanket covered flagstones, tile, and brick.
The only foot-prints in the snow, the Dealer's, and his cat.
Him looking out for customers - the puss after a rat.
Both were disappointed, and huddled round the fire.
Darkness came, the clock struck five. Time then, to retire.
Lock the Architectural Salvage Yard, and write December off.
Beans on toast, not turkey. From the darkness came a cough…
"Excuse me," said a hearty voice, from somewhere in the blizzard,
"I've heard that when it comes to matching bricks, you're the local wizard."
The Dealer hadn't sold a brick all month, but clicked the padlock tight,
(These customers at closing-time were never worth a light.)
"I'm sorry, mate," the Dealer groaned, "I'm shut now 'til New Year."
But while the wind and snowstorm moaned, the stranger ventured near.
"I need four matching chimney pots, three hundred handmade brick,
And about a thousand Dreadnought tiles, and I need 'em bloody quick."
The Dealer's mental 'rithmetic summed up a thousand smackers,
(But half-past five? On Christmas Eve? Had this bloke got the ackers?)
"I'd like to help," the Dealer said, "but the fork-lift battery's flat."
"Don't worry," quipped the stranger, "I'll take care of that."
The Dealer gasped when he saw the stranger's ermine-trimmed red coat,
And the cash pulled from his fur-trimmed hat. He counted every note.
A thousand quid in fiftys. Christmas come at last!
But the yard all pitched in darkness, and that ice-cold Arctic blast!
He went in search of jump-leads, and steeled himself for work -
But the sight he saw, defied his eyes - the whole yard gone berserk!
He swore he saw a gargoyle, which he'd had in stock for years,
Walk past him with two chimney-pots, the snow still on its ears.
A pair of leaden cherubs somehow freed from off their stands,
Were flying past on leaden wings with tiles in their hands,
While a crumbling compo Venus, her arms long amputated,
Hobbled by with a chimney-pot crown to where the stranger waited.
A swarm of brick were hopping through the yard right at his feet,
Carried by the brick's own frogs, a-leaping t'ward the street.
…back and forth the cherubs, now assisted by stone doves,
and a barrow full of Dreadnoughts pushed by worn-out safety gloves.
And then a voice beyond the gate: A "Thank you!" boomed out jolly.
The dealer stood, amazed and dazed, but keen to count the lolly.
The only sound above the wind, a clattering of hooves…
The only sight some tail-lights, that faded o'er the roofs.
…and all around, the yard stock-still. The snow-fall undisturbed,
on bricks, on tiles, on chimneypots! The dealer all perturbed,
unlocked the office, pleased to see the stove still worth a poke,
so counted cash, and poured himself a hefty Scotch 'n Coke…
…and woke to find his socks on fire! A newspaper had slipped
from off his lap, the careless chap. God knows how long he'd kipped,
but the headline on the paper made this caper seem more daft -
"Local house has chimney clipped by mystery air-craft."
At once his mystery customer was, apparently, in dreams.
The empty wallet evidence of all not as it seems,
Missing stock. And tyre-tracks. A Ford, a Merc, a Volvo?
Stolen: Statues, gargoyles, bricks… a Christmas list for Salvo.
