Tea and gardens.
My father was a gardening man
He grew roses by the score.
My father was a gardening man
With spuds in by the back door.
My father was a gardening man
He'd a greenhouse and an apple tree.
My father was a gardening man
And he also liked his tea.
One day he was tending his (tea) roses
In the large bed just by the drive,
And he paused for some tea (roses)
Which in a mug was about to arrive.
He stood there and supped the hot cuppa
Made with leaves, and milk but no sugar,
And when done tossed the dregs of the cuppa
To the path, and oh dear, what a bugger . . .
For the wee cover that sat on the path there
Went pop, and a fountain of water
Shot up and dampened the path there
There was water where it really shouldn't oughta!!
So now I am grown and my father long dead
And I oft times my tea drink outside.
When the mug it is empty comes into my head
That memory, and I quietly cry . . .
BOOM!
The prompt today was to write about a habit of someone older such as a parent and then about the same habit in me.