The Seventh Floor

He worked in a great Department Store

As the window dresser’s mate,

Carting mannequins, wigs and clothes

From the back through an iron gate,

The store room piled to the roof with props

And the bolts of coloured drapes,

Was dark and damp, and a single lamp

Traced shadows through coats and capes.

 

The store stood over a hundred years

Was red brick to the core,

And towered above the other shops

Right up to the seventh floor,

They said there were gargoyles on the eaves

That would spout when the gutters filled,

And a Griffin standing with evil claws

That would leave a brave man chilled.

 

The buyer sat in a closet room

Where he’d watch the assistants work,

And call them in for the slightest sin

If he caught them trying to shirk,

He would warn them once, would warn them twice

He would warn them three times more,

Then send them packing to personnel

Way up on the seventh floor.

 

Nobody ever came back from there

Not even to punch their card,

Their coats and hats were collected up

And thrown, tossed out in the yard,

The beggars hovered around out back

When they heard the buyer roar,

‘Get your faggoty, skinny a*s

On up to the seventh floor!’

 

Peter Peeps had been sound asleep

In the window well one day,

Trying to quell a head of Moselle

He’d imbibed, with Martha Hay,

A girl that worked on the second floor

With a line of maiden bra’s,

He’d had as much of a chance with her

As a flight to the planet Mars!

 

The buyer came to the window well

And he saw him sound asleep,

Then yelled, ‘Get up to the seventh floor,

You’re finished, Peter Peeps!’

So Peter sighed, and he took a ride

On the escalator up,

Higher than ever he’d been before,

His heart in a paper cup.

 

On the seventh floor was an old oak door

In a passageway filled with gloom,

A flickering gaslight either side

As he stepped through, into the room,

A metronome was ticking away

In a long, slow measured swing,

When a man in an old Top Hat approached,

‘Are you looking for anything?’

 

‘They sent me here to collect my pay,

Is there anything I should sign?’

‘You’ll get no pay from the Firm today

But you’re here, so now you’re mine!’

Peter backed to the old oak door

That had latched as he came in,

There wasn’t a handle on that side

And the man was looking grim.

 

‘You’ll never get out of here again,

You’ll have to work for your tea,

I’ll fix you up with a ledger, here

It’s eighteen seventy-three,

The seventh floor is a time-warp that

Was set when the store was built,

And all of you shirkers end up here

While you’re working off your guilt.’

 

He showed him the rows and rows of desks

Like a mid-Victorian link,

With everyone filling the ledgers in

With a pen they dipped in ink,

And there was Roger, and there was Ann

And there was Fiona Shaw,

He’d watched them once, all weaving their way

On up to the seventh floor.

 

The windows looked down onto the street

But it wasn’t a street he knew,

There wasn’t a horseless carriage there

And the other shops were few,

‘What if I smash the window here

And jump on out to be free?’

‘Then you will be buried before you’re born

In eighteen seventy-three!’

 

Peter Peeps looks out on a world

That had gone before he knew,

Then turns the page of his ledger back

To eighteen seventy-two,

There are rows and rows of figures there

That were written before his day,

But the one thing that he’s smiling for

Is the arrival of Martha Hay!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[David Scott]

It is hopeless to try to fill the ledger of life...
I find a sadness in the thought of so many human lives passing never feeling the hope of their balance being settled for them. The debt is paid in full already if we accept the gift. Thus we find Christmas.

In the end, misery loves company as well.

You have penned another very fine story David!

[Marie]

Eighteen seventy three was a hard time to be working...no computers, no tipewriters...

But at least he had something to look forward to...

[Daniel Sala]

No, I can't even get past the first line or two with your poems without either smiling, laughing, or getting intrigued, and often all three of them... Excellently written, full of twists and turns, a very funny poem indeed, absolutely fantastic for my tastes. At least poor Peter gets to see Martha again, you were that kind to him.
One more to go..., and this as ever with you shows a talent which consistently shines with the brilliance and disciplined skill, I sincerely hope the "demon" will get more than one out of you before the year's out, it's always worth reading your work and a real pleasure to enjoy on so many levels.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Hmmm ... Peeps should have had a roll in Hay before going to the seventh floor. :-)

[Bob Sherunkle]

Stunning Mr Paget. Fantastic story telling