Jack. By Charles Roberts

 This just popped into my head as I walked home after the first meeting I attended.

Jack went to a meeting for to read his poem,

He’d writ it on the kitchen table at his home.

It had taken him months and months, and months,

He’d even writ some when he’d had the mumps.

When it came to his turn he stood so straight and proud,

But when he opened his gob, he uttered not a sound.

Nought came out, though he tried and tried and tried,

Nothing at all, not a squeak nor a cry

He stood there all Embarrassed and wishing he were dead,

Hoping that he’d wake up still at home in bed.

He ran as fast as he could and as he ran he did cry

When he got home his mum hugged him,

Said never mind Jack thy’s only five.