The Devil On The Tree
It was coming on up to Christmas
When I received an unusual text,
‘We're travelling round the country and
We thought we'd visit you next.'
It was signed Giselle, the cousin from Hell,
And I shook right down to my boots,
For ‘we' meant daughter Annabelle Leigh
With a reputation to suit.
I think she was sired by a Demon down
In the Seventh Circle of Hell,
She'd never been smacked, not even a tap
When she'd scream, and shout and yell,
Her mother was one of those wussy types
Who'd studied psychology,
Was into behaviour models, rather
Than putting her over her knee.
They came with their bag and baggage, said
They'd only be here for a month,
And Annabelle Leigh went on a spree
Spitting all over our lunch,
‘Now don't be naughty, ' her mother said,
‘Or you'll make your uncle mad! '
‘I hate him! ' she said, looking at me,
‘You tell him he's not my Dad! '
I thought, ‘Thank God for that! ' there are
Small mercies in this world,
And one, not being the father of
This hateful, spiteful girl,
She turned my home to a charnel house
When she cauterised the cat,
Burning the fur of my Burmese with
A basin of scalding fat.
I asked if ever she'd sought the help
Of a child psychologist,
Giselle just sat and she simpered, ‘Oh,
She's never as bad as this!
You must have done something to worry her,
Keep calm, and try to be nice.'
But I was too busy to answer, while
Packing the cat in ice.
‘Children need to feel valued, ' said
Giselle, one day to me,
But I was stood by the window
Watching her kid ring-bark my tree,
She cut off the neighbour's pony-tail
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poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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