Bramble bushwhacked,
White nettle whipped,
Trousers torn and tattered;
Berry hunters in Hetchell woods,
Wits and bodies scattered;
At the sound,
THE SOUND.....
Like a slithering Boa, scales unwound;
Dripped from leaves,
Uncoiled from boughs,
O Help..... O Horror,
There's no hope now;
We stuffed our ears
With moss as a plug,
But she just gave
An Arthritic shrug;
Then she sang,
SHE SANG.....
Like overstretched wires we twanged;
Beetles scuttled,
Slugs simply shrivelled,
Hedgehogs huddled,
Earthworms withered;
Wild flower meadows wilted in her whine,
Fresh water rivulets pickled to a brine,
Blackbirds lost their will to fly,
Small Eco-system trying not to cry;
Our Mum loves the great outdoors;
Shame it doesn't like her.
05
minor edit 07.04.09
Comments
Yazmin | January 24, 2009 - 12:26
This is one hilarious poem, reminds me of my own mother, haha
Yaz xx
threeleafshamrock | January 25, 2009 - 17:10
Haha! I didn't know I had any more siblings ;)
Chris
lenchenelf | January 27, 2009 - 10:34
Thanks Chris & Yazmin, I've stopped talking to my Tomato seedlings, every year they develop blight, I think there's a correllation? :-) :-) atb L
jennifer | March 11, 2009 - 10:05
This is me! I cannot sing! But I love to sing!
J x