This poem was copied down by my dad around 1990 - just had to include it.


He criticised her puddings;
He didn't like her cake;
She didn't make the biscuits
Like his mother used to make.
She didn't wash the dishes;
She didn't make the stew;
She wouldn't mend his socks
Like his mother used to do.  

Oh well, she wasn't perfect,
Though she tried to do her best,
Until at last she thought,
She'd have a little rest.
One day it got beyond her,
His moaning all day through,
So she turned and boxed his ears
Like his mother used to do.


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