Little Tich


His blackface and tin-whistle act,
not bringing in the hordes, he was forced
to endure bed bugged doss-houses, third rate tours.

The spotlight he'd never have owned, if he hadn't
like Cinders, struck it lucky with his plates of meat.
Wearing flipper-like affairs he could rise and walk

as if on stilts or leaning at an angle of forty-eight degrees,
retrieve his artfully dropped topper from the floor.
Four-foot-six, an extra finger on each hand, no crystal ball gazer

would have dared to predict he'd become a colossus of the halls.
This quiet, retiring soul, who never got too big for his boots,
though the whole world was at his feet.

Stephen Bone

To see a video of Little Tich's Big Boots dance, click here.

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Stephen Bone  would be pleased to hear them