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Feather's Miscellany: Graham Growser

John Waddington-Feather’s poem tells of the fate of a chap who couldn’t stop grousing.

Dear old Keighworth kept no score
Of grumbles; else the Town Hall Square
Had well and truly over-spilled
With grumbling folk who dourly filled
the seats therein each day – daring
the rain-threat clouds always louring
over Keighworth, if not siling down
their contents on the sodden town.
The champion grumbler in the place
Was Graham Growser, whose mournful face
Rarely wore a smile. Always on the moan
His grumbling turned his face to stone.
He’d grumbled from birth, wailed through babyhood,
Grumbled through school, spending his boyhood
Complaining that he had no treats
Like other kids, no bags of sweets
To cheer him up; grumbled at cricket
When given out lbw or caught at wicket;
Grumbled at work, grumbled at play,
Till he caught a deadly bug one day
Yet grumbled till the hour he died.

Knowing what to expect St Peter sighed,
But put on heavenly smiles and cheer
When Graham came and stood all drear
Before the saint, sour-faced and grumbling
That he’d had to wait, mumbling
That his wings were in a state
And that his halo didn’t fit his pate.
The harp he had was out of tune
And on and on he went in one long moan,
Till Peter quite lost patience, stripped
Him of his halo, harp and wings, ripped
off his robe, expelling him to Earth
to spend eternity grumbling – back in Keighworth.

John Waddington-Feather ©


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