Her tits are on the mantelpiece,
Her gallstones in a jar.
Her spleen's set in a paperweight,
And other bits of Ma
Are scattered round the drawing room
Set in Perspex, glass and stone.
Her frontal lobe's a doorstop,
And her hip, a telephone.
A frugal woman, Mother,
Not particularly clever.
But she made sure every single bit
Of her would last for ever.
(This is dedicated to all those who commented on my last post. Their comments inspired me to waste twenty minutes that should have been spent on the novel.Thanks, guys. Any excuse... )