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Back in the days when the village was small,
There lived a tough lad who would frighten them all,
A bully by nature, with fists quick to fly,
And a glint in his eye that could tell you no lie.
He’d grown into manhood, but never grew kind,
With a talent for cheating and a devious mind,
He’d take what he wanted, whatever the cost,
And laugh at the poor souls who’d found they were lost.
I owned a green Jag, a fine 420G,
A beautiful motor, as proud as could be,
He fancied my Jaguar, I needed his van,
So we struck up a deal, as two grown-up men can.
His Vauxhall Van and my Jag changed their place,
But one hundred and fifty he owed me in grace,
Six months in the Greyhound, I’d remind him each night,
Till he cornered me quietly, out of the light.
“You know me, Fred, and you know what you’ll get,
That money ain’t coming, so just you forget!”
I knew what he meant, and I knew what he’d do,
So I walked away smiling, with a plan forming too.
Then later that year came a deal to be done,
Four houses to plaster, good work to be won,
“I’ll get you the contract, if you slip me my share,”
He grinned like a fox, quite convinced I’d play fair.
I plastered those houses, did a first-rate job,
Got paid every penny, no need for a sob,
Then back at the Greyhound, before all his mates,
He asked for his cut, quite forgetting the stakes.
“You know me,” said I, with a smile on my face,
“You’re not likely to see that commission take place,
I’ve settled your debt, and the interest as well,
So there’s nothing to pay you — now isn’t that swell?”
His jaw hit the floor, and his eyes turned red,
With a thousand of the curses he’d kept in his head,
But the fists that had ruled him seemed suddenly slow,
And he couldn’t decide if he dared let them go.
For six months the Greyhound saw no sign of his face,
No bully, no bluster, no king of the place,
And I’d sit there grinning, with my pint held high,
For revenge served up sweet needs no punch or black eye.
Oh, the finest of victories don’t need a fight,
Just a debt paid in full, karma, and a conscience held right,
Let the bullies beware, let the whole village know,
What goes round comes round — and the interest will grow!
Copyright © Peter Moring 2026
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