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.
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