I wrote this when I was 49 to explain why my kids had often distrusted my rather tall tales
The grandfathers on both family sides,
The Jew, The Scot, mischievous and rude.
Handed down tall tales and sarcastic replies,
To which I hope I can only improve.
Telling their stories, incredibly stretched,
A sufferance my kids often endured,
But now spun into tales too far-fetched.
With moans they try to implore.
“Dad, jack the kipper doesn’t exist”.
Well, I’m sure he did to me.
I go through all the old story list,
And embellish them all with glee.
I tell them an Elephant was my pet,
But I left it at my aunties,
It cost too much, I was in debt,
It ate everything in the pantry.
So, it had to go and live at her stead,
She had specific pachyderm knowledge.
In the garden by the old shed
Was where it often foraged.
With a Neanderthal glinting wink
I told them “In my day, we had only rocks!”
No TV, games, or books, or ink
This made them look quite shocked.
“But Dad! You’re only forty-nine,”
“Not from the stone age, you profess!”
I tell them I travel straight through time,
Without any hint of jest.
And now they always disbelieve,
Well, almost everything I say,
I feel my grandfathers have achieved,
And thus, thank them every day.