The Grandchild And The Loon Poem by Phil Soar

My grandchild thinks that I'm a loon
That cheese is found upon the moon
That seagulls have no place to be
Not on the land or out at sea
But hanging around the landfill site
Where we all dump our endless shite
I tell him tales of mobile phones
About the lack of council homes
Of Ravens flying around in flocks
How bedbugs live in grandads socks
And magpies steal my fountain pens
How swans are not just freakish hens
And all these things that make me thick
How the moon makes me a lunar tic
I guess he's right, that I'm a loon
And I'll be over very soon
To read him just another tale
Of how I chased a garden snail
How it had beaten me to the post
Until I had him on some toast
So, hush little grandchild, don't you cry
I know a stupid lullaby