When I was a young child
My father said "Blast" a lot
While in the garden plot
Which was the extreme
By our mother's instruction
As we were so young
However in his work shed
New words were learned without fear
Hidden from her sharp ear
Then one winters day
Called to lunch us three turned up
Washed hands, food to sup
"Oh! Bloody hell Mum
Surely not cabbage again"
My brother did complain
He was sent to bed
Father looked out the window
Thought he spied a crow
Scared I hid my smile
Glad it had not been me
And ate my greens with glee
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