Uncle Albert's Poems: page 1

In the Middle of the Jungle Lives the Fingle-Fangle-Foo He drinks but beer and brandy And lives on cheese and glue
	The cotton-wool falls thick and fast Upon the dreary rainless plain; How nice if yonder lowering cloud Were filled with Guinness, not with rain.
The fairy at the bottom of my garden Won't sing, nor will she dance, nor play; With the weeds and nettles happily a-growing, What can she do but grumble all the day?
	The voice of the turtle was heard in the land As he in accents exceedingly clear Said "I don't mind the rain in my mock-turtle soup But some sod has watered my beer."
Of course I've got a sense of humour; It's just that, when I hold you, When I whisper I love you, when I feel romantic I just don't appreciate your twitching A blade of grass up my nose
	The people move, the town is changed; New shops, new signs, new roads, new ways. Where are my roots? The trees are gone And concrete covers grassy field. Three hundred miles to home, you say? My home is sixty years away.
The muscles ache, the joints complain, Words oft elude the grasping brain; The water chuckles over stones, And high above a Spitfire purrs; No greyness clouds the brilliant sky No dryness dusts the grass rich green. The balding pate says sixty; But the heart is still sixteen.
	Were you there, my Miranda When the sun rose over the pyramids? Throwing your arms round my neck Pressing your warm lips on mine? Or are you but a desire? Not a memory of a past love Not a hint of a future love But that real, unattainable, love That each of us would have, To be complete.
Sharp cordite smell and oil click bolt of the Mark 3 Star in my brain - Such memories I cherish; but, my darling Perhaps you'd like a footnote to explain?
	A sunny day, Bank Holiday, The grass needs cut, the shed's to paint; I'd rather sit, enjoy the sun. Work's always ready when I ain't.
Mind you, there are times When I think the tongue in my shoe Talks an awful lot more sense Than the one in my head.