Gin in the Clockcase

Ev’ry family has its secrets,
Though they’re rarely of much of int’rest to the street beyond –
Just little feuds and little quirks,
That strengthen and spice the filial bond.
One day, when the rest of the world has forgotten me,
I’ll still be in the scope
Of my great grandchildren, who vaguely recall me,
And do so with and smile (I hope).

Ev’ry family has its secrets,
Though that sounds far too full of passion and crime –
We haven’t got literal skeletons in cupboards
Just rumours made respectable by time.
One day, when my genome is who-knows-where,
Those little pieces of me may frown
How funny we were back in my day,
As we lurk in attics and photos, and the stories we’ve handed down.

Ev’ry family has its secrets,
Though they’re only called that because it seems fun.
We’re making some now, though we don’t yet realise,
And half won’t be solved, though it matters none.
One day, the hurt and the shame will heal,
As we sense that we’re better together than alone.
And the good times will always be there to be remembered,
Though they change through the telling, as we make them our own.

Ev’ry family has its secrets,
Though Dostoyevsky says that we’re all the same –
I disagree, through the jokes we inherit
That shouldn’t be funny, and which we cannot explain.
One day, when we no longer have a family bible,
We’ll need a new place to write our names –
Then my great grandchildren can vaguely recall me,
Half-hidden by a water-stain.