Scabby knees! Scabby knees!

Can I pick them, can I please?

They’re so itchy, brown and scratchy,

Crusty, flaky and quite nasty,

Like burnt pastry on a pasty,

If I pick them Mum might catch me.

 

Scabby knees! Scabby knees!

Can I pick them, can I please?

Can I scratch them, can I pick them?

Can I pull bits off and flick them?

 

Scabby knees! Scabby knees!

I got them falling from the trees,

Onto the hard ground with a thud,

Playing games of Robin Hood.

My knees would be scab free they would,

If I’d fallen in the mud!

 

Scabby knees! Scabby knees!

Can I pick them, can I please?

Can I scratch them, can I pick them?

Can I pull bits off and flick them?

 

Scabby knees! Scabby knees!

Look like they’ve got a bad disease,

Crispy coated with dried blood,

Underneath there’s gunky crud,

I would ban them if I could,

Scabby knees are just no good.

 

'Scabby Knees' is taken from the poetry anthology 'We Are Poets!' available from www.flapjackpress.co.uk aswell as The Cornerhouse Bookshop, 70 Oxford Street, Manchester and News From Nowhere, 96 Bold Street, Liverpool.