My dear old gran ,
had a sowing box ,
a spindled thread of .love ,
to sow our teddies jumpers ,
When we were growing up .

My dear old gran had a bible she read it every day ,
and prayed in the kitchen so I could hear her pray .

“ Call yourself a Christian?
and you haven’t washed you’re face “ .
These things my gran knitted and she never dropped a stitch .!

My dear old gran had a grandfather clock ,
it lived at the top of the stairs ,
and chimed as I moved its hands .
A grandfather clock my grand pa bought ,
as us twins climbed to the top of the stairs .

So  we all had ham and salad and chips every time we came to stay ,
all on grans best silver ,
up the cimla ,
Gran would stop just to hear us say ....

Then there was uncle Bill who forever messed with the tv ,
so much so my gran used to say
“ Uncle Bill did that to me “

A spindled tale of memories ,
my grandma,s. box of threads ,
Of life’s great mysteries like when we drop a stitch In life ,
and forget to pick up the thread !

And so I shall close that box of memories
a thousand happy days ,that
still today reminds me ,of grand mas box of tricks..
that never goes away .

Go to bed my dear and rest a while ,
in sweet serenity.
Where  lovers dreams on fields of green ,
with sunflowers dancing without a care ,
gently caressing in the air .

Now Take a treacle to soothe your breast,
for I think it best ,
you rest you’re head in fields of hay .
Perhaps a tape  worm to loose some weight ,
around you’re hips and waste ?
What a difference that would make ?

Here’s some Arsenic to bring out that whitening glow ,
Here’s a parasol to hold for you’re complexion dear ,
out of the suns radiant glow ,
so to me you will never grow old .
What about a few drops of belladonna ,
before you sleep  ,
bescathed upon my lap .
Untill  daylight brightens a  new happier dawn ,
and sleep does not awake you’re
beautiful dream ,
then dream on my dear ,
dream on .

Mr George once lived in a large Georgian house ,
before the factory’s were built In this Surbiton town .
Back for tea at seven every night ,
after discussins   with the wise the bad and the good .


But for Mr George and his beautiful wife ,
and his clockwork life ,
in his well to do manor soon packed their bags ,
to leave their new home
With all their clocks on carts they all  moved away ,
With a clipperty clop and a bag of hay ,
goodbye to Georgian Town as  they moved
far far away .

Soon the houses came and the factories and railways too  
so the little house saw ,
Instead of green trees all around ,
coal and industry were  its only sound .
Gone were the cows and fields of green ,
now new houses were built ,
out of his window now were seen .
For a King had died and time moved  on .

And so the landowner subletted the little house ,
to many families when the foremen moved out .

And more and more what ever the cost ,
and so our little house was feeling quite lost .

The noise of the factory smelt iron and Cole ,
the thick black smoke.
The many people who came and went ,
and no one cared for the stench and the mud ,
that was left .

One privy  now for twenty or more ,
all crying and screaming on his now filthy floor .

So the rats and vermin moved in as well ,
and how he remembed his happy home ,
of mr George a family man with his clocks and wife ,
and his o so happy life .

O woman of the wanton ,
be not at my bed you lay ,
for you are of the Lushus lip ,
a bed of violet hay .
You stalk my every move at night ,
you’re brazen soul employ ,
a whip and mace you keep like little bo peep ,
your smile is undeterred .

For you search the streets every night for pleasures no man should bear ,
a lamp or lighted candle stick to guide him  everywhere .

For When twilight comes you have fled ,

like a witch who’s spell is broken ,
and leaves man with a troubled heart ,
for which he is unspoken

There are times when all we can see is just before our eyes ,
of skin and flesh and bone ,

our constant need of care . .
Of food and wealth to feed our needs ,
to build our happy homes
But Gods plan is of immortal things ,
of love and truth and grace ,
For these  are things we cannot see ,
and yet are hid before our eyes
The hardship of a life well spent ,
not counting down the years ,
and knowing that in spite of this ,
Gods love and constant care .

Oh meadows of no beast and fowl ,
I wander where the wild winds blow to every discontent .
For above me and not below ,
the Bearded Vulture circles high above my heavy load .

Far above what I can see ,
the far off murmring of the trees ,
for distant lands has come to this ,
from far away  an evil kiss ,
Where the Bearded Vulture seeks its prey .


For my journey is thick with pine and birch ,
and rugged staff ,
and thicket and bristle and thorn .

For his is the heavens above Gods earth ,
that by his hand gave it birth ,
to feast on bone ,
not rotting flesh
and to seek out kingdoms vast in wealth .
High above what we call trees ,
high above the bullet and gun ,
where man wages endless war and the songs of peace are never sung .  
Far fowl then where cows  and sheep ,
graze in pastures not knowing this ,
that don’t in terror look to the skies ,
to seek out the talons and beek .,
and what ever flys .