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