Down Fiddlers Lane
A portly woman
Struggling in her wellies
In an old wooly top
Bending over to pluck up her crop
Right big ‘uns they are
Carrots the size of marrows
She bends right over
A sight to scare all the sparrows
My father, however
In his little endeavour
Her turkeys he is plucking
Most of them still clucking
Mrs Johnson is chucking
Her welly
It hits him right in the belly
The turkeys are ducking
“Pluck them all properly!
And don’t do it sloppily! ”
The second welly she throws
So he knows
Not to mess with old Mrs Johnson
And with a van full of carrots
To market she goes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem