A Mackerel In The Bath

 

Come the day in early May,

Dad would be out with his feather,

Mum would chuck us into the bath,

With bars of Imperial Leather.

When she had finished scrubbing us,

And drained the bath water away,

We would be warned to avoid all dirt,

Until after Christmas Day.

 

Late that night when dad returned,

Our anticipation had grown,

Each of us so excited,

To see what he would bring home.

Sometimes the mackerel was short and squat,

Other times longer and thinner,

Whatever its shape, in the bath it went,

To be fattened up for Christmas dinner.

 

Then throughout the summer months,

Our care for this fish was high,

The chill of autumn gave us worry,

And it's easy to understand why,

To feed our little family well,

It needed to be a foot and a half,

If it died we'd have no Christmas dinner,

Plus,

 It was the only thing stopping us having a bath.

(c) Ledger de la Bald