As the wife gies ye a shake
An ye violently awake
Ye are left wi only remnants o ye’r dreams,
When she shouts intae ye’r ear
That ye’r grandchildren are here
Ye’re already nearly deefen’t wi their screams.
As ye’r mind is workin oot
What the hell it’s aw aboot
They are utterly remorseless in attack,
Efter sclimmin up ye’r chair
Grabbin handfu’s o ye’r hair
They’re laughin at ye’r tears ahint ye’r back.
They miss aw the bluidy weeds
When they’re digging up the seeds
An the plants wi which ye’r gairden is arrayed,
An they justify ye’r fears
When ye see the gairden shears
In the rows o heids o tulips neatly laid
They stick claes peens in the lug
O the suffrin family dug
An the poker up puir Rover’s Khyber Pass,
Ay helpin Guid Saint Peter
Stickin shillins in the meter
While they’re turnin up the turncocks o the gas.
Anither fav’rit caper
Has the toilet fu o paper
While they’re pu’in at the chain’s as hard’s they can,
Until they get afloat,
Their wee tiny Match Box boat
In the water that’s cascading frae the pan.
There are times the bairnies wee
Cannae wait tae hae a pee
As they play at horses oan their Granpa’s fuit
An their nappies often fu
Wi a lump o Number Two
As they joggle up an doon upon ye’r buit.
Lying like a lump o ham
In his hire-purchase pram
Is the latest for identity parade,
The unveilin process shows
That he’s got his Granpa’s nose
An ye’r face is like his erse when it’s displayed.
Aye, grandchildren can be nice
When ye hae them yince or twice
An their veesits are weel stagger’t time aboot,
But it can be madd’nin tae
When ye hae them ev’ry day
So’s their parents can be free’d for gangin oot.
But thae parents ocht tae mind
They were never left behind
For their Mither or masel wid never dare,
For the dirty little shits
Wid o pu’ed the hoose tae bits
If their Mither or masel went anywhere.
Read more of Christie Grahame’s work in Poems of Love and Loss by Christie Grahame