Abi Wyatt

Mother Hubbard’s Lament

The old ways are dying out

and we, I fear, must fade with them.

Nobody now makes homemade pie

so the blackbirds sing and fly free.

All the wells have run dry

and the world grows dim

since the candle-maker’s

passed into receivership;

and, though the jolly pie-man

peddles well his wares,

at the fairground no one buys.

Now the pipes have fallen still

and the fiddlers have ceased;

all the tarts – either burned or long stolen.

For want of more honey,

the pale Queen weeps

and the Grand Duke numbers his dead.

While the pussycat dines

on the startled owl,

Big George and Little Willie are indicted;

and, in the counting house,

as the numbers stack up,

the old King puts a pistol to his head.

Abi Wyatt © 2011