DON'T HURT YOUR COCCYX

My mother bounced me on her knee -
in fact she bounced me on them both,
1, 2, 1, 2, alternately,
to cut down the wear on any one kneecap.
“Alright, Rachel,” she said “let’s recap
the things I told you, little lady –
always make sure that your cot is tidy,
don’t bolt your rusks at breakfast-time
and the greatest of the three, most importantly,
look after your coccyx - it’s the only one you’ve got.”
And then she sat me down on the ground
on the light brown carpet with the dark brown background,
gave the telly half an hour to warm up –
an old steam television with a spindle and a shuttle –
and I watched a public information film
with an animated squirrel saying
“Always tell a grown-up
if you think you’re going to hurt your coccyx;
always wear a coccyx-guard on elastic round your middle,
properly fitted if you're able,
properly knitted, with your name on a label.
Don't hurt your coccyx. God save the King."
And when I went to visit my Grandfather Pantechnicon
he told me that he'd lost his coccyx
at the siege of Mafeking
and he’d had a gold one put in its place
but he still kept the old one, just in case –
hung from a rafter in a jar
it was company, you know, like a budgerigar.
And when he blew in the little holes,
he could use it to tune his guitar.