By Christie Grahame

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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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