Vinnie’s ma she loved to hoe, and weed and prune and plant.
Her parsnips were a sight to see (tho’ not too sweet I’ll grant).
A mater diligent and kind, she loved her boy to bits,
and always saw his diet filled with protein, carbs and vits.
A pioneering cook she was, her spag bol can’t be beat.
But tender as the carrots were, the onions and the meat,
what made the dish were the herbs, alkanet and borage,
she had her herb patch in the ground, in which she loved to forage.
Now Vinnie, though he loved his mum and thought her cooking splendid,
had a herb patch all his own which lovingly he tended
with great attention and a lot of deep thought and devotion,
a herb which, mixed with other things, became a potent potion.
Alas one day when Vinnie’s ma was gath’ring for the dinner
(and thinking that he looked quite pale and definitely thinner)
she came upon our Vinnie’s patch, and plucking quite a bunch
off she headed to the kitchen, bent on making lunch.
‘Come on luv, eat it up!’ cried Vinnie’s ma with passion,
and she and Vin scoffed the lot, like grub was out of fashion.
Now Vin was used to the effect, but ma she felt quite funny,
‘Bloody ‘ell!’ quoth she, bemused, ‘I’m feeling faint, cor lummy!’
Now Vin he loved his ma to bits and realised with a cry,
she’d picked the herbs meant for his smoke and baked it in their pie.
‘Not to worry ma,’ he quavered, tucking her in bed,
reflecting sadly on the fact his ma’s become an old pot head.
When she woke the following day she felt as right as rain,
resolving though, not to pluck those pungent herbs again.
‘I’ll stick to parsley!’ she declared, ‘and rosemary and thyme!
Vin can keep his bloody patch and me I’ll stick to mine!’