Joab Wells, A Poetic Person. 1798.

Copyright Brian Kelly.
Fictional autobiography

Genre:- Humour

A Bit Of Auto Biographical Nonsense.
By Joab Wells, a poetic person. 1798.

Introducing myself. ‘I be Joab Wells’
I be a big strong young fella me lad, wiv an enormous Todger. This todger have been givin me lots o plesure and trouble since I be a young boy. So from here on I’s a-goin to a-write down an epistle bout some of the ‘appenins to me and my todger..
Ifn youse bain’t be intrested I do think that you be wery wise, cos t’will be a lot of ole rubbish that I do write. Not only that, but cos I be a poetic person I is likely to suddenly burst into some soppy poetic writins.
Û
During the Spring of the year, when the croakasus and snowflowers are a pushin’ up from the newly frost freed ground, when I, feeling the urge to go out and skip and gamble like the new borne lams; this be when I know that life is wurth livin.
Spring is the best time for poetic people like me to rite down my fol-de-rols, odes, or soppy verses. It is the time of year when I gets to a-feeling randy for love or lust, or as sum people says, a lusty roll in the 'ay. My 'ealthy young loins, are girded, redy for the fray wiv sum comely wench.
Scribbling verses to 'em, makes 'em go all a twittery like, and makes it easier for I to give 'em a good rousting and a-plesuring, afore I scampers away and looks for another one to be a getting into the drawers of.
Spring is when they birds and they bees do go a twitterin and a buzzin. When they makes nests, and they lays their eggs, then goes and sits on 'em and squashes 'em. Silly buggers!
But the best thing ‘bout Spring is 'cos it aint Winter anymore. None of us poetic people likes Winter, cos it be too cold, and us can’t think of any nice soppy verses for to attract they wenches when our teeth is a chattering fifteen to the dozen------and they won't lay still on cold wet straw neither.
Before a-plesuring a maid in Spring time, the men and the boys have to go a-skippin' and a-gamblin' in the meadow, in their best new smocks. The one who is the best a-gambler and a-skipper, gets the best maiden, but if like me, he be no good at a-gamblin or a-skippin, then he’s got to know ow to seduce 'em wiv a silly fol-de-rol, or a soppy verse or two.
Tis also a time when the vicar and all the silly ole church people do a twirley dancing around the Maypole. They ties themselves up in knots, then they all falls down on the muddy soil. They thinks it be funny and they all laugh that much that they pee their breeches.--The silly buggers!
After the Maypole dance, they do have a barn dance in the Tithe Barn in the evenin’, an when they starts to get hot wiv a dancing and a jumping and a merrymaking, then they that didn’t change their knickers don’t half pong.
Amongst all the local girls I be known as ‘Joab the Maypole man,’ cos o’ my big pessle. Nobody ever showed me out to dance, but that aint ever been any detriment to me cos I ain’t known a May day when I baint had me a spring flower to pluck.
I be a cowherd workin for old Squire Jones and I lives in the loft ower the plough horse stables. Tis always warm in the stables, cos I haves plenty of straw to lay on, and the body heat from the ‘orses cums up to me. Mind you the pong of that ‘orse pittal and their a-fartin can be a bit too much sumtimes.
The Squire got thirty of they French Charleyrey cattle, which I be in charge of. I lets 'em a-wander down olde Dingly Dell where the Widow Alsop lives wiv her six pretty daughters. They be called arfter flowers, and I have plucked em all, aye, everyone of 'em. She, widow Alsop that is, did come from up north in Yorkshire an did talk funny . Her keeps on a-sayin ‘Thee’ and ‘Thou art’, stead of, You, and You are. ‘Thas got a reight big pessle theer, tha as, Joab and its reight nice when tha puts it in me.’ She would say
Now I be in trouble, cos' a while ago old Widow Alsop did catch me a plucking her Primrose. It being springtime, I cudn't resist, cud I now. So I sits and rites a poem to the old biddy, about pretty flowers, and how they needs a plucking when they be young and fresh, and starts to a-grow in springtime.
Primrose be easier than the other five put together, she do give me the glad eye whenever I sees her, but she makes such a-cattering and a-'ollerin that would wake the dead when I gets her in the woodshed and a-slips in my pessle. Her bawlin 'aint in protestation like, no, 'tis opposite to that, her bawlin and a-moanin' is cos' she likes it a-plenty.
Anyway her mother heard her yellin’ and came and catched us at it, and when she did see my prime piece of meat she immediately scuffed Primrose around her ears, and a-sent her indoors, then she said that I better be a-servicin her, and to write her a pretty poem, or she wud report me to the Squire, cos on'y him was s’posed to a-do it to Primrose, her being the youngest like.
Here is the little poem that I did a-write for her, Widow Alsop that is. I did try to write it like what she do a-talk like

The Bootiful Widow Alsop

Oh bootiful Widow Alsop thou ast such a sexy mystique

Flat titties, flat feet and flat vowels, thou certainly is unique

Wiv daughters called aft’t flowers, thou ist t’ best flower of all

If t’ andsome Prince did ever see thee, ‘tis thee ‘e’d tek t’t ball

T‘wouldn‘t be that lovely Cinderella, or any your daughters’ fair.

But thee ‘ee would choose to goo wiv and would ride thee like a mare.

But I knows ‘ee could never satisfy thee, Cos I did have thee first.

Once ‘avin tasted my pestle, it created in thee, an everlastin thirst .

My pestle made thee and thy daughters, fall under my wiley spells

Now thou will allas remember bein a-plesured by lusty Joab Wells.

I did write it in her bible an signed it wiv my name. She, poor ole thing, nor any of her daughters could read a word, so I could a written any ole rubbish, instead o such a bootiful poem. They wun’t a known any difference.
She be real proud of her poem an said that she be a-savin it forever.

If’n youse is a-wondrin how I be so clever as to be able to read and write, I’ll be a-tellin you all later.

Old Widow Alsop baint a bad old biddy to be a-plesurin, her is wery vigorarse, and wriggles around a lot, and makes me big potato pies for a-doing it to her; but I can’t keep up wiv all the fambly of 'em. I be too tired, so I am considerin to leave the employ of the Squire and going to join the Navy.
Tis sed that they sailors in the King’s navy is nockin ’ell out of they Frenchies. They Jolly Tars captures em, then because they says that they, the Frechies they mean, fight like girls, then they, the Jolly Tars, is a going to treat em like as if they were girls. Then they stretches ’em ower the capstan, takes their britches down and gives em a good old towsing. I don’t s’pose that they kisses ’em though, ’cos us English men can’t stand all that onion and garlic smell. We got to keep our moral standards, baint we.
I ‘eard tell how some of they Frenchies who were captured and were sent up on to Dartmoor to build a prison for themselves to be locked up in, fell in love wiv some of the Tars who did a towse ’em and started writing letters to ‘em. They Frenchies, cos they knows how virile the English Tars are, got to bein’ a-scared and thinkin that they might be a-pregnant. They silly buggers don’t know that they French letters baint goin to stop em bein pregnant. Not now nor ever.
They do say that if you gets too wet and tired of scrubbing the decks and a climbing the riggin’ on a British Man-Of-War, then you can take off your britches and somebody will clean 'em while you sits in an empty barrel and haves a rest for a while. I can’t see me a-gettin wery comfortable in a barrel, but I's a-willin to try, cos I don‘t like to have wet britches, and I be a lazy bugger anyway.
I once asked a sailor why it ‘ad to be in a barrel to take a rest. He a-telled me that the officers can’t see a bloke scivin’ off for a rest in a barrel, that way you don’t be a-gettin into trouble. Cos if they officers sees anybody doin what they calls ‘a-scullin or a scivin’ about on the deck, then they gives em a good whippin wiv a ‘cat-o-nine-tails.’ I wouldn’t want that. On the other hand, ifn youse is a-catched in the barrel you only get it with what he called a ‘one tail.’
Bye for now, maybe I can talk to you all again sometime.”

Joab Goes To Pompey.
“Hello tis Joab a-scribing this little epistle again. Do you remember me a-telling you about the Widow Alsop and things? Well, sure enough the Squire found out about me a-towsin young Primrose and him being a Justice, said that he would have me a-put in the stocks for a month.
I be a lucky bugger, cos I just ’appened to be up at the Hall at the time to give Clara, his chambermaid, a going ower, when in comes Albert ‘is Butler, and tells me what the Squire was up to. So now, insted of me a-thinkin all leisurely like, that I’d leave and join the navy sometime, I had to leave in all of a rush. Mind you it wouldn’t surprise me if that there Albert hadn’t telt him ‘bout Primrose, cos ‘ee is also keen to get into the drawers of lots of the girls, and ’ee knows that while I still be around the village he baint got a chance.
Now I be in the Port of Portsmouth, they locals calls it Pompey, but I bain’t be sure that I wants to a-join the navy now, cos I called into a tavern for a drink of ale and some supper last night. I took a liking to the landlady, big buxom maid she be, so one thing leads to another, as you all well know it does, and I finished up a spending the night in her bed, on account of there being no space in any of the rooms or the stables. Seems like there be a goose fair taking place in town and folks have come from many miles around. Mind you, she found space in the stables for her old man. He be no brighter than an ‘ostler anyway.
It all come about when I tells her that I baint got any money to pay for my ale and bit of bread and fat pork, so I a-tells her to feel in my pocket if she don’t believe me. I knew that that would do the trick. For I hadn’t got a pocket in that side, it just be an ’ole straight through to my towsing tool. Course when she a-felt my todger she said that I be a big boy, and I could have my food for nothing. Then when I asked the landlady if she had a room for the night, she said that she would make room for me, and she did tell her old man there and then that he was to sleep in the stables.
‘tis a lovely comfortable bed that she got, an t’ was warmer in there, nestling between her big buxom titties, than any bed I ever been in. So this puts me in a bit of a dilemma, on the one hand I don’t really fancy joining the navy, and on the other I don’t really fancy staying here wiv Big Ada.
The trouble is that she does do great raspin’ smelly farts. Maybe her old man aint such a fool arter all. Tis possible that he can stand the stink of the ‘orses a-fartin more’n he can stand the stink of Big Ada.
Don’t get me wrong. Her be a fine woman to a-lie a-bed wiv, an she be a good mover and does show the proper appreciation when I a-towses her. We did it four times larst night, and that’s where the trouble lays. When I pops it in, ( tis a big un mind!) she starts a-doin her fartin. It be for all the world as though my pessle touches agin somethin an lets off a pressure valve, but tis when she be on the vinegar stroke that she do fart the worst. She emits a stinkin brown cloud of deadly bodily gases. If I could bottle it and send it to they French Froggies ‘t would save us ‘avin to beat em wiv our guns and cutlasses. T’would be our new secret weapon, an Big Ada would get a medal and a title, for her services in bein’ a fatal farter to the King and country.
On the other hand, if she went to that there posh university place in Oxford they would give her a B.A. (Big Ada) in Fartin’, just to get rid of her. I wonder if it would stop her a-fartin if I was to stick a carrot up her arse? Course it could be dangerous, she might kill some poor unsuspectin bloke, if she was to be a-bending down fillin a jug of ale in the tavern and let one of her raspers off and shot the carrot at him.
So there it is, that’s my dilemma. Do I go and join the navy or stay an let Big Ada wrestle wiv my pessle? I’ll have to give it some serious consideration. Bye for now.

Here I am again, an I have been doin some a-thinkin. That which I thunk about, was that all you people who are still readin my little epistles, and not fell asleep with boredom yet, must by now be a-wandering how it is that I be educated enough to write all my little ‘appenins down on paper. So I better be a-tellin you somethin about my background
Tis an interestin tale of simple country folk, and how they did a-live, in the service of being domestic staff in the ‘ousehold of Lord an Lady FitzRather-Badly. I was a-born there, so that’s what I’ll a tell all youse readers about first, well not all of it of course. Some of they things that ‘appened there baint be fit to tell to a Duchess, never mind all you nice folk.
That be in the next little epistle of course.

I don't really want to bore youse good folks in your readings,so I won't print anymore unless plenty of you ask me to. Bye for now.