Curmudgeon in Springtime
(This poem was read by me at the April meeting of the Fed Poets roleplaying event held at the Grange, near Hobbiton, 2024)
(Curmudgeon – crusty, irascible, cantankerous old person)
I spent the winter at my ease,
Each morn lay lazy in my bed,
But now I wake at half past five,
To noisy chirping overhead.
I stumble, groggy, to my feet,
Still yawning, through my curtains peep,
To see what damned, accursed noise
So rudely wakes me from my sleep!
There, high up in my tall beech tree,
A host of so-called feathered friends,
All singing to the risen sun,
As if on this their life depends.
I know not, or have perhaps forgot,
Quite what it is makes them exult,
But of one thing you may be sure…
I wish I had my catapult!
To my neat garden I repair,
But there I find the weeds spread quick,
Such rampant growth I’ll not abide,
I thrash them with my walking stick!
And as I take my morning stroll,
Beset by signs of cursed spring,
Sun shines too brightly in my eyes,
Showers drench, and insects sting.
And young folk pour from every home,
Run to the fields, a noisy crowd,
What they do there I cannot tell,
But know it should not be allowed!
And everywhere I seem to hear,
The mushy love songs minstrels sing,
But I’ll tell anyone who’ll hear,
I don’t hold with that sort of thing.
Then Granny Fox comes walking by,
I once was a close friend of hers,
She winks, and gives a little smile,
And deep within me, something stirs!
