And little Richard scrubbed away,
Until his fingers bled.
But mum was forced to shout at Joe,
Whene'er she hurried passed,
"Don't just sit there looking dumb,
Get out and cut the grass,
Or when your dad gets home from war
He'll really tan your arse!"
Joe stuck his bottom lip right out,
then hurried down the hall,
Into the garden, where the grass,
Had grown to six feet tall,
Determined that he'd hide away,
Behind that green, thick wall.
And there Joe stayed for many months,
While rain lashed down outside,
Eating worms, and toads, and such,
He cried and cried and cried,
Too obstinate to go back home,
'Till finally - he died.
Now on still nights, when stars are bright,
And clouds drift by unscarred,
You'll often hear an eerie sound,
Drift over your back-yard,
It's ghostly Joe, out cutting grass,
And boy, he's working hard!
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About the author:
Peter Barns live in the Highlands of Scotland.
Retired, he now spends his time writing and refurbishing houses.
Connect with me online:
Twitter: http: https://twitter.com/#!/peterbarns