My father was a humble man,
Was driving, long before
A formal 'test' was needed,
Be that two or four door.
Initially, a motorbike,
When dating my dear mum,
Though afterwards, a vehicle
When parents, did become.
A vehicle, it was needed,
Cared less whate'er he drove,
So long as got from 'A' to 'B'
He had nothing to prove.
A "sense of humour" had he,
A "sense of grandeur" too,
The luxury vehicle, named Rolls Royce,
Was out of bounds, he knew.
Though, drove a 'Rolls Can'ardly'
His description, with wit,
It certainly, 'Rolls' downhill though,
'Can'ardly' roll up it.
Shepherds Pie
A res'dent in a Nursing home
For years, where, work, did I,
A lady in late eighties,
A spinster, by and by.
She had been a professor
In University,
Her seventies, learnt piano,
To play, to you and me.
She had a sense of humour,
By chance, I found that out,
Our Francis was still 'with it'
Though oft times, one could doubt.
Her eyesight had been failing,
So she was needing fed,
And as was norm, we told her
What was on her plate bed.
A staple in the home, there,
Was potato pie, with meat,
The residents enjoyed it,
"Twas pretty good, to eat.
Before we started feeding,
Informed, what her plate held,
Did NOT expect her response,
With laughter, my heart swelled.
''It's Shepherds pie for dinner"
Heard her concerned reply,
"Do I 'ave to eat the shepherd?"
With laughter, tears, did cry.
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