A FAMILY HISTORIANS LAMENT
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
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 minutes, 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,
After 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!