'This one is about my grandfather, whose disability gave my sister and me plenty of entertainment when we were nippers. Hope you like it.'
My grandad was known as Alan
But his first name was Joe
Why my family uses middle names,
To my death, I'll never know.
My life's been very confusing;
I've got my folks to thank
For missing my name on registers
And delays when paying in at the bank.
Well, my grandad had a false leg;
He'd lost his in a smash
When a lady drove into his bike
And turned it all to mash.
He said she'd had a drink or two and,
Prior to impact, covered her eyes.
That was the last he remembered
Before he was anaesthetised.
It wasn't such a disaster (he said);
It made him no less of a man,
It meant he didn't go to war,
And it was how he met my gran (she was a nurse, you see).
A year later, he left the hospital
And saw service, putting out fires.
After that, he fitted boilers
And kept his leg secret, it transpires.
Until one day, while speaking on the phone,
He pushed, absent-mindedly,
A pencil in, then out, of the hinge
Of his artificial knee.
On seeing this trick, a secretary screamed
And passed out, cold, on the floor.
Double quick, Joe found himself
Knock-knocking on the guv'nor's door.
"I'm sorry sir that I didn't tell you
About me being an amputee."
"Cavanagh, I don't care if you've a false backside -
You're a good worker; it's alright by me."