Put the cat out Mary,
pour the milk into the jug.
Two sugars please in my tea,
and do use my special mug.
Yes I know; it's cracked and ancient
and says Blackpool on the back.
And down the centre by the B,
there runs an awful crack.
But I've had it now for thirty years,
in fact; as long as you.
And I guess it's that I'm used to it,
just like a well worn shoe.
So if it's competition, or
a challenge that you crave,
then pit yourself against my mug
should you dare to be so brave.
And don't moan if you're the loser,
the one I wave goodbye.
For I'll have my mug 'til I depart
to that teapot in the sky.
And I'll raise it high and give a toast,
in worthy and good cheer.
For familiar and long serving
are the things most blokes hold dear.
Like trousers, though tight at the waist,
and shirts that fade with time.
What counts to me is not their look
but the fact that they are mine.
But then nothing lasts forever,
man made or Godly wrought.
Except of course my cracked old mug,
which I remember well, you bought.
So put the cat out Mary.
Pour the milk into the jug.
Two sugars dear in my tea.
And please use our special mug.
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