This tales mainly ’bout my bed,

And the crazy folk from Hazelhead.

I thought I’d write this little poem,

About what happens in my home.

 

Trying to clear my sleepy head,

I awake to make the great big Z.

I wake with scratching at the door,

A wee while later I hear more.

 

“Morning John, are you awake?”,

Not now, asleep, for goodness sake.

Sometimes it’s singing, sometimes laughter,

But no more sleep for John here after.

 

John gets up, all sleepy eyes,

There’s no more sleep, I know – I’ve tried.

I’m still alive, so they’re all glad,

They’re all so nice, you can’t get mad.

 

They come in laughing, it’s such fun,

I’d hug these girls – every one.

The boys then give me all the news,

And keep me from suffering lonesome blues.

 

As I sit here I think aloud,

“What did I do to get this crowd”?

They come in early every morning,

And waken me without a warning.

 

I’ve heard that carers can be bad,

But all of mine are flaming mad!

They come in with an awful noise,

That’s both the girls and the boys.

 

So if your name is John or Jo,

Nellie, Francis, Michelle or Flo.

David, Adam or just Tom,

You’re great no matter where you’re from.

 

That’s the team I see each day,

No wonder that my hairs all grey.

They’re the best lot to behold,

I wouldn’t swap them for pure gold.