On grandpa’s boney knees

The skeleton trees of winter,
send bones to you, gramps, another year older,
but do the chills really seem that big
when your old legs look like kindling twigs?
They make my bum go quite lopsized,
truly, your knackered knees are like knives.

You boy, are a darn pest, and a bother!
Questions, questions all day long,
if it’s not one thing, it’s the puzzling other,
and three hours left until you’re collected by mother,
go get that wood and then I’ll answer.

It’s over there, behind that heavy door,
ay, what’s that you say? Yes, yes I’m very sure.

Boney knees indeed! Yes, the log’s outside,
under the snow, with the coals there to find,
lift up the damp wood, look under, look behind,
go on go, Harry, don’t be slow, don’t tarry,
and get a few more if you can carry.
Three? Aye, that’s right, if you would, please,

I didn’t even want the kid on my knees!