The Lady with Shallots

Doctor please come quickly,

Said the voice upon the line,

‘Tis Mum, it’s Mrs Pettigrew,

She’s lost it,

She’s not fine.

I hastily gathered up my bag,

Of potions, oils and pills,

Within minutes I was there,

By “Clouds view” on the hill.

I gasped and then composed myself,

No garden could I see,

For she’d uprooted everything,

Each bush, each plant, each tree,

She’d dug out an allotment,

Not just huge, nor large,

Where others plant in barrels,

She’d commandeered a barge!.

Her neighbours were mighty displeased,

Said barge their garden wrecked,

The fence it was quite shattered,

Gazebo, it was decked.

She’s only planting onions,

They shook their fists at me,

Come on Doc you sort her out,

Tis chaos, can’t you see ?.

The lady was quite busy,

She knelt upon the soil

Surrounded by her onions,

The subject of her toil,

Georgia Sweet, Bermuda,

Granex, Cimarron and Red,

She had them planted in neat rows,

She’d labelled every bed,

Onions far as eye could see,

No other veg was seen,

No carrot, nor potato,

No pea, no runner bean.

I tried my best to talk to her,

To make her see some sense,

She clearly knew her onions,

But she took offence,

When I suggested other veg,

Deserved an equal chance,

She pelted me with shallots,

And threw me baleful glance,

Sadly I made a phone call,

To a specialist I knew,

Explained the situation,

Told the family what to do,

Reluctantly they acquiesced,

Next day she was removed,

To a special home they said,

Although she disapproved,

I hear its many miles away,

And her family sometimes go,

To see how Mum is doing,

Share lunch, dinner and so,

They’ll go en masse to show they care,

They’ll go there as a troop,

So long as, on the menu,

There’s never onion soup!

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