THE GRIM REAPER (on holiday)

“Peace and tranquillity” the guest book it read,
The thoughts of a quiet week went round in my head.
A super old cottage all covered in moss,
The churchyard adjacent, the cemetery across.

Saturday was fine; there wasn’t much noise,
Just the sound of kids playing, some girls; and some boys.
The hum of the traffic, the trill of the birds,
Just now and then the speaking of words.

Then Sunday arrived all quiet at first,
Till all of a sudden on the scene he did burst.
The Grim Reaper stood there with strimmer and hoe,
The graves to keep tidy; the grass he'd to mow.

For hour on hour the strimmer it screamed,
Of peace and tranquillity was all that I dreamed,
My head it was spinning, my nerves were all shot,
I was calling him names; and I know quite a lot.

I picked up the pen and looked at the page,
My hands were a trembling; I was in a rage.
Here's what I wrote (and I don't feel guilty),
"I'm going back home to peace and tranquillity".

BREAKFAST IN THE GARDEN (on holiday)

Early rays of sunshine filter through the trees,
The Robin on the chair-arm with my presence he’s at ease.
Those damn accursed pigeons coo-cooing in the Yew,
The course of fox’s footprints is marked-out in the dew.

The Blackbird stands and stares, his ground he will not give,
Those worms that are in front of me he needs them for to live.
The church bells now are silent the graveyard is all mine,
There are no folk around just now for Mass is not till nine.

You hear a rustling in the tree and catch a sight of it,
That bushy-tailed squirrel from bough to bough it flits.
Early morning traffic comes rushing down the lane,
It breaks the silence with its noise; it is my hate, my bane.