This is a poem about me, written by my dad when I was about 6 years old    (c. 1960)


Have you heard of little Mike,
The boy who nightly rides his bike
Up and down the Avenue,
'Cos he's nothing else to do.

Without his coat, without his hat,
On his tiny seat he's sat,
Peddling on the left hand side;
Cock-a-hoop now he can ride.    

For a while he's good as gold,
Until he shivers with the cold;
Then this little tired lad,
Comes riding home to Mum and Dad.  

It takes him hours to get undressed,
Another half to rub his chest,
And if we didn't shout and bawl
He wouldn't get undressed at all.    

His face turns green when he sees water,
To wash he thinks he shouldn't oughta,
Then down his cheeks come all those tears,
He can't stand soap behind his ears.    

And when at last he's really clean,
As clean as he has ever been,
We smile at him with pride and joy;
He looks once more just like our boy.    

He never cleans his teeth at night,
That's why they're black instead of white,
And when he gets pyjamas on
Half the blinking night has gone.    

Then there's supper to be done,
A slice of toast, a piece of bun,
This doesn't fill this little lad,
Until his Weetabix he's had.    

And then the blighter asks for more;
He'd even eat another four,
To finish off, the plate he licks;
That's how he likes his Weetabix.    

He then gets out his toys galore
And throws them all on to the floor;
The place looks like a jumble sale,
Or what's left over from a gale.    

He leaves the drawers open wide
So everyone can see inside:
If it was tidy we wouldn't mind,
But only rubbish you will find.  

He hangs his coat not on its hook
He hardly reads his library book;
We try but he will not be said,
And so we whisk him off to bed.   

The bed is warm, his blanket's on,
But where the hell's his stockings gone?
So we start searching high and low
You'd be surprised just where they go.  

At last our worries seem at an end;
If only we could just pretend.
All is quiet, he soundly sleeps;
Then down the stairs the blighter creeps.  

"I want to go to toilet Mum,
It's all that food that's in my tum;
It's making me feel oh so sick;
Will Enos, Mummy, do the trick?"  

On the toilet he starts to sing,
And then forgets to pull the string;
He leaves the doors open wide
And lets the freezing winds inside.  

He kisses us and up each stair,
He toddles off to blanket fair:
Peace at last! that's what we think,
A voice shout down, "I want a drink".  

If you have kiddies of your own;
Whether two or three or one alone,
Believe you me you'll rue the day
The blinking stork passed by your way.  

But after all is said and done,
We'd both be lost without our son;
Although he's just a scruffy tyke,
We love this lad, this lad called Mike.  

And so this poem comes to a close,
I hope you like it goodness knows:
It is the best that I can do,
God bless you Mike and toodle-oo.

(Joe Armitage)

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