I walked in the kitchen and there was my Mum


Sat at the table with a truck load of plum


Whilst de-stoning the fruit to make into a pud


She wrote a short verse which I thought was quite good

See, Mum likes to write like she’s somebody else


Seems the voice of her poem was that of myself

 

And so, she wrote:

 

‘My mum’s been busy cutting up plums


Her son, her chum thinks they all look like bums


Now she is glum as she is getting numb thumbs’

 

A few hours later she had no reason to grumble

Those numb thumbs had made way for the perfect crumble

Whilst the crumble was tasty, the plums that I like

Are the  plums on this  guy as he got  off his bike

And on the subject of fruit, I admired his peach

Lucky lifeguard attendant watching fruit on the beach

I know what you’re thinking took words out my gob

Yes the beach guard defines what I call a plum job

Sat high at my lookout, how happy I’d be

Looking through my binoculars and not at the sea