We knew what was wrong with Grandma
Before we could hardly talk.
She grumbled about her pension
And lost the peas off her fork.
Soon after our parents copped it:
The scales fell from our eyes.
He was a bigoted stick-in-the-mud;
She told whopping white lies.
For a while we were busy with courting,
Then we had kids of our own.
In no time at all we were fogies,
And horribly accident-prone.
Still, my children’s children are precious:
They chuckle and sit on my knees.
But my pension is nowhere near adequate
And my fork keeps losing the peas.
by Damaris West
Read the story behind this poem
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