He’s always on the scene
And his engine’s bright and clean
And you cannot ignore, cannot, cannot ignore
That he is the hero next door
But now he lies awake, unsettled, pondering
Wondering about these things and more
Why no one listens, why no one
In the whole idyllic village of Pontypandy
Knows one single fucking thing about fire prevention
After twenty years of pointing out overloaded sockets
And overfilled chip-pans and carelessly placed bunting
And slow-burning fireworks,
To which you must never, never go back -
And they always fucking do.
“Is it me?” he thinks. “Am I a failure?”
“Is my life worth living at all?”
The universe, cold, uncaring, offers no answer
Save the plaintive baa of Woolly the sheep,
Who gambols long after his bedtime
In the moonlight In Dilys Price’s back garden.
Station Officer Steele stirs under the duvet and finally, wakes;
He puts a hand on Fireman Sam’s naked shoulder.
“Darling,” he says, “go to sleep.”