(A tribute to my Uncle Phil. RIP 1942-2017)
Once upon a time,
There lived an uncle of mine,
A true gentleman and humble to boot,
A loving father no-one could repute,
The harmonica he loved to play,
His talents fully on display,
And on his battered old spoons,
He could really belt out some tunes,
He could muster a yarn,
And tell it with great charm,
Crafting his stories by hand,
His visions and plans were totally grand,
He could bring amazing characters to life,
Adding in just a touch of strife,
He used many a clever disguise,
To save some reputations was certainly wise,
Now Sawn Off was always in trouble,
He could almost be Uncle Phil’s double!
Rolling from danger to disaster,
This writing was coming from a master,
This novel we now call Yarnbull,
Sure has plenty of pull,
To suck you into the storyline,
With writing that is oh so mighty and fine,
Now I’m no prude,
But some of it was just a bit rude,
I blushed with every scene,
I’m your niece, can you please keep it clean!
How can I read your words,
When you keep adding explosive little turds!
But he continued with determination and drive,
Until his heart gave out at seventy-five,
From a lifetime spent in the bush,
His memories gave him plenty of push,
To create some stories for all to enjoy,
But to bathe in the limelight he was far too coy,
He never got see his work completed,
He was most definitely cheated,
So we added author to his headstone,
For he was the greatest writer our family has ever known.
