This song/poem is based on the fact that when i was a small child my grandmother began to act more and more strangely until one day she was taken away and put in an asylum, never to return......aaah. Still we can laugh about it now can't we?
WILD WEST GRAN
Tell Gran to get down from the cooker, She's too old to ride the range
What is it with her and this cowboy thing? And why is she acting so strange?
She thinks that the dog's bowls a spittoon, Chews bacca and drinks redeye
tea
She knits her own chaps, and ten-gallon hats, Wears spurs to walk down our
high street
Please Gran don't wrestle
the sofa; it isn't a Wild West steer
What is it with her and this cowboy thing? And why is she acting so queer?
Next-door is an Indian family; Gran says they must be Cheyenne
She says it's all right; they have smoked the peace pipe…. I'm worried
about her, I am
Yes, my Gran she sleeps
on our front lawn, by a log fire, under the stars
What is it with her and this cowboy thing? The problems not hers it is ours
Now she's panning for gold in our garden, with a colander, crouched in our
pond
Distressing the fish, with gold rush antics, I think something's seriously
wrong
Tell me why is the banister
slimy? Has Gran been riding again?
What is it with her and this cowboy thing? I'm losing my best friend
Social services have done an assessment, and say they're headed our way
They should be here soon; they're due at high noon, they're coming to take
Gran away
At the top of our road
they appear, two tough looking critters, real mean
Gran gets to her feet, walks onto the street. Calls out "Guess you're
lookin' fer me"
I screamed, " Look
out Gran, get away", but I knew she'd never get far
And she turned to me; with a smile so sweet, She waved and got into their
car
I understand now the cowboy
thing, when I visit Gran in her new home
She sits silent, stares into space, and I hope it's the prairies she roams