Friday, August 13, 2010

Now Sammy has a Sandpit

Now Sammy has a sandpit
I’ve become a weary crab
I live in sand a metre deep
In house and car and yard
Our lounge is now a shifting dune
The hall a desert plain
My computer desk a dust bowl
Where the grit of play remains
Now Sammy has a sandpit
My clothes are dangerous things
My socks cause chaffing rashes
My shoes hide stuff that stings
The building of sand castles 
Fills the guineapig with dread
He knows the latest tunnel
Will be tested on his head
Manners at the table
Are as rare as Van Gough pictures
Instead we’re mostly tasting his
Especially sandy sandwiches
Now Sammy has a sandpit
Not everything is doom
Bubblegum and mud won’t stick
To the floor in his room
I’m going into business
Selling vacuum cleaner liners
To all despairing parents
Of four year old sand miners
And so a word of caution
If your Christmas list includes
Anything with sand in it
For God’s sake, buy the kid a bike!

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