My Grandma had big balls,
Big heavy hairy yams,
Swinging boulders under her dress,
She would stand one leg on a chair,
Her hefty doc martin boots tight,
Leaning one elbow on her knee,
Stroking her bold chin with left hand,
Blowing choking tobacco smoke,
From a liquorice papered roll,
Like a musket fuse in the right.
In awe I would see them
The tips of coconuts,
Ponderous, potent, dangerous,
Dangling out from under her frock
Like, Churchill, Drake, or Wellington,
Planning raids of domestic loot,
Planning lethal Sunday Dinners
Planning bingo hall victories
Planning serious drunken brawls
Grandma’s low hanging British balls.
Copyright © Steve Humphries Artist | Year Posted 2015
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