My Grandmother and Mrs Jones

Mrs Jones said to me:

“I don’t care if you’re a darkie

Come on in and have

A cup of tea with me.”

I can’t be offended at Mrs Jones

She’s just like my grandmother

She has the most politically incorrect

Tongue in the world

No one is safe.

I sit and listen to Mrs Jones

Talking about anyone she sees

Plus anyone she can’t see

If she had a spirit guide,

She’d find something to criticise.

Their poor stature

When floating and manifesting

Their dress sense, ambition,

Features, skin cream,

Whether their make-up

Would look better on a man.

Or if they were a man, a woman.

The small things

That there’s

No law against.

"Gawd, luv a duck!"

Is her opening sally

To every offence

While the uninitiated look around

For something yellow and fluffy

But guess what?

My grandmother is worse

Because she can criticise and curse

And in rhyme, rap, song or verse.

She was a big fan of Tupac

And it shows

"This buckra running after

Me trying to see what I see

Can’t clean her own pickney

Can't wash them clean

In a bath or stream

She the hawktuah gal

Spit em up – dirtee!!"

If my grandmother

And my neighbour ever met

I don’t know where would be safe.

Matter and antimatter meeting

But I know what

They’d both say if they could,

“Annihilation?

That doesn’t f**king  suit you!”