Constable Jinks

Our village policeman is tall and well-grown, He stands six feet two and he weighs sixteen stone; His gait is majestic, his visage serene, And his boots are the biggest that ever I’ve seen.

Fame sealed his renown with a definite stamp When two German waiters escaped from a camp. Unaided he captured those runaway Huns Who had lived for a week on three halfpenny buns.

When a derelict porpoise was cast on the shore Our village policeman was much to the fore; He measured the beast from its tip to its tail, And blandly pronounced it “an undersized whale.”

When a small boy was flying his kite on the links It was promptly impounded by Constable Jinks, Who astutely remarked that it might have been seen By the vigilant crew of a Hun submarine.

It is sometimes alleged that great valour he showed When he chased a mad cow for three miles on the road; But there’s also another account of the hunt With a four-legged pursuer, a biped in front.

If your house has been robbed and his counsel you seek He’s sure to look in—in the course of the week, When his massive appearance will comfort your cook, Though he fails in the bringing of culprits to book.

His obiter dicta on life and the law Set our ribald young folk in a frequent guffaw; But the elders repose an implicit belief In so splendid a product of beer and of beef.

He’s the strongest and solidest man in the place, Nothing—short of mad cattle—can quicken his pace; His moustache would do credit to any dragoon, And his voice is as deep as a double bassoon.

His complexion is perfect, his uniform neat, He rivets all eyes as he stalks down the street; And I doubt if his critics will ever complain Of his being a little deficient in brain.

For he’s more than a man; he’s a part of the map; His going would cause a deplorable gap; And the village would suffer as heavy a slump As it would from the loss of the old parish pump.