The garden at home, from what I recall
Was massive and overgrown,
More like a huge untended park
That was mine to explore and roam.
There were trees and shrubs and flowerbeds
That were all burnt up and dried,
I never saw anyone water it
So most of the garden died.

And my grandfather would wander about
And he’d grumble under his beard,
Mumble about his offspring, as he
Wondered what he’d reared.
‘They all take after their mother’s side,’
He would say, ‘They have no spine,
I’ve searched and searched for an Astrogoth
But I don’t think that they’re mine.’

I doubted they really wanted me,
They’d throw me over the fence,
And say, ‘Go play with your grandfather,
He’s more like you, and dense.’
Then off they’d go to the garden’s end
To sit by the smoking pit,
Whenever I’d ask if I could go
My mother would throw a fit.

‘Don’t go to the end of the garden or
We might just leave you there,
Your cousin fell in the pit of hell
And was burnt beyond compare.’
I watched the smoke pour out of the ground
To see if my parents lied,
But sure as hell, there were flames as well
Right there, where my cousin died.

One day I watched as it opened up
To reveal the son of sin,
My parents ventured a little close
And then they had tumbled in,
He yelled and roared, called on the Lord
That he spared him in his den,
‘Just take your half-wits back,’ he cried,
‘My hell is not for them!’

I haven’t been to the garden now
For years, since my Gramps took off,
So I’m the only descendant now
With the name of Astrogoth,
That smoking pit with a door to it
I have tried for years to sell,
But nobody seems to want to buy
A personal door to hell.

David Lewis Paget