With apologies to John Masefield. A little poem about my knees.

I must bend down on my knees again, my dodgy knee and sigh.
And all I ask is paracetamol and a glass to wash it by.

And nice slippers, with pop socks that look neat. And a roaring fire to warm them dry.

And central heating, hot pipes fueled by free gas on unlimited supply, but I can’t see the wood for the trees because of my bleeding knees.

And still more ups than downs, it doesn’t seem fair, that still I have such a huge cross to bear – it’s me knees you know.

I must bend down on my knees again, yet I’m growing old, and it brings a tear to my eye. Too young for a pension, but old enough to die.