My Grandad

My Grandad by Neil McCall

My Grandad was a simple man of coal;
he did not comprehend the whizz of atoms
or comply to butter up some oil-rich sheikh,
he simply hewed the black stuff down a hole.

My Grandad was a man of simple tastes;
no croissants nor polenta crossed his lips,
he lived for meat, two veg with gravy,
morning fry-ups, football pies
and died of excess fags and fish and chips.

My Grandad loved the simple soulful sound
of slick-haired Negroes playing trumpet or trombone;
Jimi Hendrix would have been a bridge too far,
his siren call a warlike warble on the gramophone.

My Grandad lived the simple English way;
he taught me how to judge a pint of ale,
to kill a man you haven't learned to hate
and, when you've ceased to love a woman,
how to stay.