Bob

It’s up the muddy lane with lots of puddles,
Past the graves with bright green stones,
Into the field of pretty flowers –
That’s where Bob lives.

In a wooden shed like ours at home,
With a fire inside to cook his dinner on,
Burning great big trees that make my eyes cry –
That’s how Bob lives.
He doesn’t wash his hands like Mummy makes me,
And his face is black as well,
And he eats his breakfast with his fingers –
That’s what Bob does.

His bed is all old overcoats,
And I could see his toes come out his shoes,
And he never combs his hair like mine is –
That’s how Bob is.

But it must be lovely having blackbirds
Come to sit and talk to him at tea,
And not to have to do the things that I do,
That’s why I wish that it were me.

Copyright ©2001 Tony Crisp