He was looking for a friendly host.
I said,’ You are looking very thin,
you had better come on in.’
‘Would you like a piece of toast?’
He replied, ‘I’d rather have a Sunday roast’
So there we sat, trying to get him fat,
a three hundred-year-old ghost called Nat.
We had a beer and he came over queer,
and he quickly began to disappear.
So that was the end of Nat;
who never did get fat!
Footnote: I don’t believe in ghost but my father once said I bet our Simon will never write a poem about ghosts as he doesn’t believe in them. So after he had gone to bed I wrote this amusing little poem just for my dad. It made him smile when he read it. So this is dedicated to his memory: George R. Icke 1914-2000. Who was born in Salford & lived most of his life in Little Hulton, Salford)