Fun

“You’re just no fun,”

You told me.

Well, let me tell you why.

My whole life I’ve been misled

By lie and lie and lie.

The first day of school,

The dentists drill,

The day we bought… a shed.

The month that grandma came to stay

And had to have my bed.

Hair cuts, Day trips

Shopping, Baths,

When Auntie Jean got wed.

Having to play with mum’s friend’s kids,

Tho horribly ill-bred.

Every annoying, boring thing,

Every visit filled with dread,

Was prefaced by the the same untruth:

“Oh, it’ll be fun!” they said.

So, ‘fun’ translates to suffering,

In my poor old fucked-up mind.

And if the word still makes me flinch,

Perhaps you should be kind.

But one day, when you least suspect,

And when I think I dare.

I’ll show you my one secret.

A magic pure and rare.

We’ll walk to where the hills are green,

And where the air is clear.

I’ll take your hand, look in your eyes,

And if I see no fear,

I’ll push you down that bastard hill,

And throw myself straight after,

And we’ll roll and roll and roll and roll,

‘Til you’ve nothing left but laughter.

Then knackered, filthy, bruised and hot,

Our journey will be done.

I’ll take your hand again, and say,

“I can so too have fun!

“You miserable get.”