We knew what was wrong with Grandma
Before we could hardly talk.
She grumbled about her pension
And lost the peas off her fork.
Soon after our parents copped it:
The scales fell from our eyes.
He was an obsolete bigot;
She told whopping white lies.
For a while we were busy with courting
Then we had kids of our own.
In no time at all we were fogies
And horribly accident-prone.
Still, my children’s children are precious:
They chuckle and sit on my knees.
But my pension's a downright disgrace
And my fork keeps losing the peas.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Damaris West would be pleased to hear them.