With her cast-iron bloomers and her bomb-proof hair
You can see her sitting knitting in her chintz-clad chair
And she likes a bit of bingo and a game show on the telly
But if she watches horror films, they turn her legs to jelly.
And she’s daft about the man who reads the weather, I should think.
She’s partial to a sherry, though she says she doesn’t drink.
She’s always scolding Grandad—says it’s just because she can.
She says he keeps her going and he says the same of Gran.
She wraps herself in memories with ornaments and such.
She sometimes lets us look at them but tells us not to touch.
She smothers us with kisses every time she comes to visit.
That’s not too much to pay for Gran to bring us candy—is it?