Aunty Mable

Knock knock, “Who’s there?” “It’s Aunty Mable.” Quick, let’s hide beneath the table. I hate it when she comes round here, She leaves me feeling rather *****. Her top lip is adorned with bristle, And when she speaks her false teeth whistle. She never plucks that hair that grows From the wart upon her nose. I can’t stand that cat of hers, It’s grumpy, mean and seldom purrs. I’m not sure why she brings that broom. She’s never swept a single room. When she leaves our neighbour stares At the big black pointy hat she wears.