My Dad (The Gardener) Poem by John Carter Brown

My Dad has got green fingers,
He's always been that way;
He grew veg' in his younger days,
He grows them now he's grey.

Tomatoes are his forte,
No finer can be found;
He eats them by the dozen,
And sells them by the pound.

He grows a vast amount, and now
Two greenhouses he owns;
Tomato juice is in his blood,
And marrow in his bones.

His spuds are so delicious,
Their praises I must sing;
So fresh and full of flavour,
And fit for any king.

His lettuce too, are lovely,
They're crispy and dark green;
Much better than the shop ones,
The best I've ever seen.

There's not much that can beat him,
He's skillful in his craft;
He isn't Percy Thrower
But he isn't flippin' daft.

The only thing I've ever known
My Dad to fail to grow,
Is melons, for my sisters,
Just a tiny one did show;

The whole procedure was for him
A problem just too great;
So now they're off the menu,
And for melon they must wait.

But still, it's just one failure,
And not like all the rest;
My Dad is still the greatest,
My Dad is still the best.

My Dad has got green fingers,
And this will always be;
Now mine are going green as well,
And that will do for me.

(Written Oct 1994)