Donald, where’s your tractors . .?

Young Donald had got an obsession, Thinking tractors are simply just grand. At first just a fad Thought his mum and his dad, They now felt it had got out of hand. His bedroom was crammed full of tractors, Every model and make ever made, His mum always cussed When she went in to dust, She said: ‘This can’t go on I’m afraid.’ They tried to break Don of the habit, Which led to some terrible scenes. His dad would retort: ‘Why not take up a sport?’ But the craze carried on through Don’s teens. One morning Don’s passion was over, Said: ‘Sorry, I’ve given you grief.’ He went on to say: ‘They’re all going today’. His mum uttered a sigh of relief.

Two hundred and sixtyfour tractors — The collection had taken 12 years. The lot went to the tip And were dumped in the skip. Once home, poor Don shed a few tears. His dad said: ‘We’re proud of you, Donald.’ They chatted while mum cooked some grub. Dad said with a sigh As they ate shepherd’s pie: ‘You’re a man now, let’s go down the pub.’

First time Don had been in the local, He wasn’t the hard-drinking type, And he started to choke Caused by billowing smoke From cigars, cigarettes and a pipe. He said to his dad: ‘This is awful,’ Once he’d picked himself up off the floor, And despite wagging tongues Don filled up his lungs And exhaled the thick fug out the door. Thirty times he repeated this action ’Til the bar was no longer in gloom. All stood up to cheer And one bought him a beer — They could now see far side of the room. The landlord was grateful and asked him: ‘Tell me, how do you do that, young man?’ Don caught his eye And said in reply: ‘It’s because I’m an ex-tractor-fan!’

John Butler, Flitwick, Beds.