My mate Billy’s parents are
absolutely fab -
trendy, fun, hysterical, and not
an ounce of flab!
Billy’s parents feed him up on
sausages and beans,
burgers, ice-cream, cola, pop -
they never mention greens.
Billy’s parents seem to like
the tapes and stuff we play;
like the volume turned up
loud - and keep out of the way.
They never mention homework, they never
mention bed;
they never dredge up rotten things
the rotten teachers said.
I told Billy’s parents they were
absolutely ace;
Billy groaned, “You’re joking!” -
and he pulled this awful face.
Billy came to my house - we had
fish and chips for tea;
then we watched a video my dad had
got for me.
I upped the ghetto-blaster till
the plates fell off the wall -
my dad just sat there taking it,
mum didn’t mind at all.
We had a mega pillow fight - my
dad joined in as well.
Billy marvelled - “Pretty
neat! I think he’s really swell!”
We had a scrummy midnight feast
with pop and monster rings -
and no-one said, “You’ll rot your
teeth!” or “Don’t bounce on the springs!”
Billy thinks my parents are
absolutely ace;
I said, “They’re prehistoric!” and
I pulled this awful face;
“My mum and dad moan all the time,
’bout work and sleep and stuff;
and eating proper food and things,
and washing - all that guff.”
“I know,” sighed Billy dismally, “
’cos mine moan on at me;
they’re only half-way human when you
bomb round for tea.”
Then, “Tell you what,” said Billy,
“I’ve got this splendid plan -
we’ll always be at yours or
mine - as always as we can!”
(October,
1990)
