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A FAMILY HISTORIANS
LAMENT
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
I've been doing family history, for nearly 30 years,
Diligently tracing, my illustrious forebears,
From Pigeon Lake to Peterborough, Penrith to Penzance,
My merry band of ancestors, has led me quite a dance.
There are Cooks from Kent and Guards from Gwent and chimney sweeps from
Chester.
There's even one daft fisherman, lived all his life in Leicester,
There's no-one rich or famous, no not even well-to-do,
Though a second cousin, twice removed, once played in goal for Crewe.
I've haunted record offices, from Gillingham to Jarrow;
The little grey cells of my mind, would humble Hercule Poirot.
I've deciphered bad handwriting, that would shame a three year old,
and brought the black sheep of the family, back into the fold.
My bride of just three minuets, I left standing in the church,
as I nipped into the graveyard, for a spot of quick research.
Eventually, I found an uncle, sixty years deceased.
That was far more satisfying, than a silly wedding feast,
Three weeks of wedded bliss, my wife became despondent
She named the public records office, as the co-respondent.
I didn't even notice, when she packed her bags and went
I was looking for a great granddad's will, who'd died in Stoke on Trent
But now my 30 year obsession's, lying in the bin
Last Tuesday week, I heard some news, that made me pack it in.
'Twas then my darling mother, who is not long for this earth,
Casually informed me they'd adopted me at birth!
OUCH!!
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