He wasn’t a hero, he wasn’t a star.
He lived on the farm and he didn’t go far.
He didn’t have powers or an outfit that clung
And he didn’t smell sweet working with dung.
He teeth didn’t shine within one perfect grin
And he was
partial to real ale, the whisky and gin.
He didn’t
have an apartment in the centre of town
And his
fingers were rough and a mucky shade of brown
From digging up mud where the pigs trampled the land.
His hair was unkempt and his clothes had no brand.
But he worked like a Trojan from dawn until night
To her he was super, a warrior, an idol, her own.
When he went off to battle amongst the cereals he’d sown.
Who needs a Superman or a man like a bat?
Her Arthur would beat them into a cocked hat.
And she smiled by the stove as she filled up the kettle
Who needs Iron Man when already you have a man of such mettle?
By Linda Prince
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