A Poem I Wrote About My Father For His 70th Wedding Anniversary Poem by Lynette Bednall

WIND BENEATH YOUR WINGS
There was an old man called Jack Hardy, he wore the most mukiest cardy, for on it you'd see what he'd had for his tea, including his brekky and sarnie. T'was not his fault, not even revolt, for his hands had a terrible quiver, he'd eat from a tray and his gravy would stray, especially if he'd eaten liver.
He shuffles along with the tiniest steps, squinting as he finds his way, his bottle top glasses resemble mollases and his falsies the colour of hay.
His hair is very white and in curls it all falls down, it's thinning on the top now, he looks like Coco the clown.
His trousers need the braces, to keep them anchored up, they tend to reach his chest line and hide his little gut.
Now have you got the picture of this man within your mind, well let me tell you more, I will try to keep it kind.
He's got this little problem, its one he can't control, it happens everywhere he goes, my story will unfold.
He farts with mighty gusto, wherever he may go, on buses or in cafes, he has to let them go. He farts for 20 seconds, they are deep, loud and mean, he can even play the tune to God Save the Queen.
The problem is their smelly, his gas can fill a room, if someone lit a match there, there would be a mighty boom.
They put the blame on cows for the hole in the ozone layer, but I know it's him, the phantom farter slayer.
He walks down the street and jet propels along and if you get downwind of him you won't be there for long.
He laughs at his own antics, his shoulders simply shake, he blames it on his wife and then makes his escape.
We have to take him shopping, a task that we all dread, we have to simply warn him, behave or on your head.
He gets himself a cart and sets off down the aisles, but you know that he's farting because of all the smiles.
You try to keep your distance, you think he's not with me, and then he comes behind you and shouts I need some tea!
We took him up to Matlock once high in the Derbyshire hills, we chose to ride the chair lift to get in some thrills. Instead we were gased by him and forced to breath his air, the carriage it was sealed and left us in despair. Would not have been as bad, but the other half was full, of unsuspecting strangers who were slowly turning blue.
He told me he'd inherited the deadly flatulence, from his dear father who I met only once. He said his Sister Betty was so much worse than him, she would fart through the letterbox and his mother let her in. Despite all these traits the latter I've discussed, he really cannot help it, he has such poorly guts!
We did not think he'd make it to 90 in a way, but he has proved us all wrong and so were here today.
Let's get him up on stage now, give him time to tell his story, set him free to speak and revel in his glory!