Sign up to our newsletter
He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
Say, Good mornin, Granny MaamaGood mornin, Grandpa Taata.Good mornin when it rainin.Good mornin when sun shinin.Good mornin.
Let me do it, let me do itLet me blow up the balloonLet me do it, let me do itLet me go to the moon
Please Mrs ButlerThis boy Derek DrewKeeps copying my work, Miss.What shall I do?
All you see is outside me: my painted smile,the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me
In the line you hear a chatter.Up and down a clatter, clatter.Noisy schoolgirls scream and shout,pushing in and pushing out.
I spied a small lonely boy.I was his beautiful red balloon,from morning through to noon,