Great Uncle Arthur Poem by David Taylor

Great uncle Arthur was never a master
of anything he tried either now or hereafter.
When he potted a plant it withered and died
and when he made jam it ran all over his hands.
When he mended the car it never went very far
and when he painted the door it opened no more.
When a holiday he booked it was only the brochure he looked
the company had already closed down its doors
before he was able to get to that place he'd adored.

No great uncle Arthur was never a master
of anything he tried either now or hereafter.
If he picked up the phone he just got continuous tone
and if it should ring it invariably said,
Is that the home owner, have double glazing instead?
If he went for a stroll the sun quickly went in
the heavens just always seemed to pour rain down on him.
And if he took to his bed when he was weary at night
there would be bumps and screams to wake him with fright.

No great uncle Arthur was never a master
of anything he tried either now or hereafter.
But the funny thing is, a mystery to me,
I never saw him frown or even displeased.
Oh dear uncle Arthur what is it you know
that makes you shine always
from your head to your toes?