Grandad, we do really love you

My Grandad is old,
Wizened and bent,
His trousers are made
From an old Army tent.

His jacket is torn,
His eyes are all puffy,
And all-in-all
He's pretty scruffy.

He gives us a cuddle,
We give in with a sigh,
For his clothes are all dirty
And he smells pretty high.

For all of his faults,
He is rather fun,
Through the hole in his trousers
We can see his bare bum.

He comes round for dinner,
And stays on till tea.
We don't want him to starve
Either him or his flea.

His shoes are all worn
And they look very tatty.
He plays stupid tricks
And is really quite batty.

I think hard sometimes,
And it makes me quite sad;
I hope I'm never
Quite like my Grandad.

He has no one to kiss,
No one to cuddle,
He talks quite a lot
But his mind is a muddle.

His socks are old,
And oh so smelly,
And the dust lays thick
Upon his telly.

His hair is a mess,
It's all over the place,
And I'm sure that he
Never washes his face.

He smokes all day,
And he smells of stale fags,
But now he's off home
Get out the flags.

On his own sweet way he goes,
Wiping the dewdrop from his nose,
From out of his shoes
Poke ten little toes.

He has not shaved,
It's too much trouble,
But it's still nice to see him
Without all his stubble.

Poor old Grandad
It's such a sad shame,
Since Grandma went
He's gone down the drain.

But I love my Grandad
Who's old and bent.
We can't choose
Who heaven's sent.

Len Langley, submitted to Daily Mail by his brother Ron Langley, Woking, Surrey.