By Clive Simpson
When we go to visit him
On Sunday afternoons, it's grim.
He serves us lukewarm cups of tea,
No custard creams and no TV.
We sit and listen to the clock
On chairs as hard and cold as rock
While he relates to us who's dead,
Who's ill and what the doctor said.
He shows his operation scars,
His bits and bobs in pickle jars,
His dressing with its funny smell,
his latest rash - it's total hell.
At last, it's time to go. We're glad,
But Grandad's not. He sighs, "I've had
A lovely time. You'll come again?"
We all feel sorry for him then.
By ZED
Oh thy crunchy musty shell, it has such a haunting smell
Is that ginger in the sauce, tell me no, it makes me cross
A little sassafras tea if you will, even though it may make me ill
Can I have a bit of that, just sweep it up where it went splat
I'm feeling chipper, pass the spice, lots of pepper, oh thats nice
Needs some deep fried Calilili, theres no such thing as too much, silly
Such a pleasure supping here, Oh yes, slide down that pitcher of beer
Now I'll sit back, and have a smoke, and plan my next stroke
