♫ An Inchcock’s lot is not a happy one (Happy one)… ♫

This may make very sad reading, I think you will agree,

It’s not for Inchcock, a holiday on the Aegean sea,

A hobble to feed the ducks on the canal is what it’ll be,

He lives on dry bread and out of date beans or mouldy brie,

You cannot call him educated or a bourgeoisie,

He looks like a demented overweight limping pygmy,

He’s old and decrepit, for his coffin he’s now ready,

Gets as much respect as a Brooke Bond chimpanzee,

He puts up with insults, innuendo and much phooey,

Many including himself questioning his sanitation and sanity,

His Brother in law thinks it is time to have him put down gently,

His arthritis and angina make him gobble vitamin B,

He hobbles around talking to himself each day,

 Arthritic knees, and his waterworks are getting leaky,

The eyes and hearing are going, and he’s got dropsy,

His pension is limited although not measly,

How long his new heart will last, we can’t guarantee,

He craves a woman – he’s more chance of winning a grand prix!

Death is not unwelcome to Inchy – it will set him free,

From being bullied, ignored and mugged badly,

Before he goes, perhaps just one plea?

Before he gets to meet Hitler and Elvis Presley,

Please give him in heaven, a nice settee,

His earth house is too small to get one into you see,

Oh, and some another things he’ll miss clearly,

The cups of nice strong flavoured Yorkshire tea,

His bladder’s endless calling him to painfully pee,

The insults, the snubs and muggings he has to decree,

His daily hobbles, when he has the vitality,

His fear of Mobility scooters, he’s been hit by three,

His nervousness of going out when it’s icy or slippery!

If you want a consultation with him, anytime it’ll be free,

Don’t call him though, he’s been cut-off by BT.

Thank you matey