Mere Man

I can picture Grandad surrounded by piles of paper in his bedroom or perhaps strewn over the dining room table; editing here and adding his special form of shorthand there . . . 

In each corner spins a spider,

Weaving cobwebs with endless art:

All the rooms are in disorder,

Nothing neat and nothing smart.

All the floors they need a sweeping;

Everywhere a duster wants,

And Mr Man, his things is keeping

Scattered about in heaps and dumps.

Something soon has got to happen,

Or a mole he will become,

Creeping amid the household bracken,

Gone to earth, and awful glum;

Everything is topsy-turvey,

It's disgraceful, I declare:

If only he, less wordy-wordy,

Would just set to and make things square.

Something must be done about it:

Shall I see the Registrar?

If he won't move, why, then I'll shout it

Through the town, both near and far:

Really, it's a pressing problem,

And I'm sure you will agree

Mere Man is an audacious vandal

Despoiling nest so pretty and wee.