The spooky, eerie feeling grips me,
As I watch Grandpa swinging from a tree.
His body is lifeless, limp and pale,
His hands are fragile and frail.
“Grandpa”, I shriek, “I thought you were dead,
For your funeral mass the first reading I read”.
“Shut up kid”, he says with a frown,
“Do you know how bad it is there down?”
“Down?” I gasp,”So you made it to hell?”
“Believe me girl heaven ain’t that swell.”
“Is it hot down there? Do you loathe the heat?”
“Down there kid, I hate the food I eat”.
“Food?”, I exclaim ,”do you still need that?”
“Of course we do you blithering brat”.
“But aren’t ghosts the gliding type all slim and light?”
“Yes kid, but we need energy to scare Earthly folks at night”.
I gently ask, “What is it you miss most from up here?”
“Is it the TV set, liqueur bottle or fishing gear?”
“Honestly kid, I miss the food your Grandma would make,
Those sinful crumpets and cookies she’d bake,
those meat pies and curries with assorted spices,
Oh that food would distract me for an hour and half from my Earthly vices.”
“But you never liked her cooking and always criticized this and that”.
“Yes m’dear but I’d still gulp it down and get all chubby and fat,
So pay heed young girl, don’t fuss over your looks and weight,
We men love that initially but later grow to hate,
It’s the food a woman cooks that we remember even when dead,
So ensure you keep your husband always well fed.”
