I was brought up in the country

In a small town near Bath

It was an idyllic childhood

Going out with the farmers

Before school had even started

And killing anything that moved

I was an illiterate child

As I did not understand

Latin until I was six

But I was loved

By my parents

And my siblings

And two of the local scout leaders

On our frequent camping trips in Wales

I was also loved

By little Miss Stephens

Who lived next door

She was so small

That even our Chihuahua

Towered over her

But she gave me money

And I loved her for that

Especially when I was poorly

When I had an attack of pubic lice

She brought me an estate

In Shropshire

And when I died

She purchased an ocean liner

And a potted plant for me

The only trouble was

That the silly old bat

Kept falling over

And breaking bones

Which necessitated visits

To the local slaughter houses

Which was not great

As I hated hospitals

There were sick people there

Some even escaped with their lives

But my parents told me

That it was my duty

To visit Miss Stephens

So there I was on the ward

Counting the patients

As they vomited over their dinners

And when I was bored of watching that

I attached the Do Not Resuscitate orders

On the beds of anybody who looked vaguely ill

Which provided me with hours and hours of fun

But it all came to a sudden end

As one day my father told me

To take my collection of matchboxes

To the Lucy Westenra Hospital

I knew then that Miss Stephens

Had taken a turn for the worse

And sadly I was right as that afternoon she died

The following day after my paper round

I put her in my favourite Bryant & May box

We buried her next to Brian the Bunny

And my collection of innocent creatures killed on the roads

However when her will was read I was left absolutely nothing

In a fit of rage I dug her up and sold her to a Kebab shop

On the outskirts of Bristol as they had run out of dogs again