A Poem to Grandad

I have an old Grandad, he’s always been there,

he’s wrinkled and grey like, and he’s got no hair.

He says that he’s clever, has learnt all he can,

but I think he’s balmy, for such an old man.


“I can’t, never could do,” he says with a wink,

when washing needs doing, the pots in the sink.


I offer to help but, he says with some fight,

“If you have to do something, then just do it right!”


The cantankerous man, he moans all the time,

but I’ll always forgive him, as my Grandad’s mine.