Poems
Grandad, Why Do You Do It?
Just nipping out to see Fred.
Oh yes, I remember that’s what you said.
But you rolled home drunk
And your face all red.
Silly grin on your face,
Eyes crossed and looking half dead.
You uttered something!
Yes, I heard what you said.
It’s his fault!
It’s always his fault
That drink that you call Fred.
By Marie Staniforth
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