There was a man. His name was Jim.
Although some people called him Jack.
His parents used to call him Mick,
His aunties sometimes called him Will.
To all his friends his name was Geoff,
Except for those who called him Bob,
And those who knew him best as John
At work they called him Belvedere,
And at the club, his name was Tom.
But no one mourned when he was dead.
The papers thought his name was -
Fred.
Although some people called him Jack.
His parents used to call him Mick,
His aunties sometimes called him Will.
To all his friends his name was Geoff,
Except for those who called him Bob,
And those who knew him best as John
At work they called him Belvedere,
And at the club, his name was Tom.
But no one mourned when he was dead.
The papers thought his name was -
Fred.
3 comments:
You're crazy. In a nice way.
You're nice. In a nice way.
This is a poem about my grandfather. We're still finding out what he called himself for different social groups, and he's been dead a few years! Well, what do you expect when you name someone Horace and then send them off to war?
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