Family Tree
I had an uncle once who earned a medal in the war,And his son, big Don, killed the woman next door.
My Grandad painted pictures that hung on London walls,
A tiny man, they said no height at all.
My mother’s side was noble, touched with royal blood,
A king whoever he was did what kings often would.
Nothing changes much, it’s still the same today.
My father’s line runs deeper, stretching far away.
In 1678, beside a mill and lake,
He made his fortune grinding flour for the bake.
My family tree remains a puzzle to me.
I’ll close the book and let it be.
Poetry by JohnJohn
Written on 2026-07-26 at 19:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
