A wombat sang up to the moon, he sang a plaintive air,
Oh where is she who lights my way with her golden yellow hair?
Oh where has gone her long-lashed gaze and her smile so wide and bright?
Until she takes her pearly teeth and soaks them for the night?
I miss the sound of tiny feet, the tap-tap of her cane,
The snuffle of her guide-dog, Bert, when they come home again,
I want to feel the oaken smooth of her shapely wooden leg,
The gurgle of her draught of beer, that she slugs straight from the keg.
Oh lovely Edna, fairy maid, come home, come home to me,
I miss your wig, your shoulder brace, the way you suck your tea,
So come back on the morning tide, come back and please be mine,
I long to hear your Zimmer frame, please be my Valentine.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved