Home Thoughts

If privilege shared's forfeit repaired,
then my searing secret should be aired:
for oft I hear the Thump-it Voluntary
of Man's New Child - and his pulmonary
aubade - when, bleating like a sheep misled,
Britain's future tumbles out of bed.

Lusty lungs negate the party wall:
detonating tantrums plump their pall
of poisoned breath on hopeful risers:
my 'nice day' is choked by little blighters
soon propelled outdoors by irate hand -
always when some gardening I have planned.

'Ello mister' shakes the flimsy fence,
mouthing little else that makes much sense.
'Wotcha mate' demands attention now;
I must stay and answer - I know how
three neglectful years and mother's pride
clobber the neighbour who tries to hide:

for, of flying stones, there is no lack;
broken toys politely handed back
don't prevent the pebble in the eye -
will their parents venture out to try?
only bedtime halts the fusillade;

then begins the wailing serenade.

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