Her ghostly stories make our hairs stand on end,
Her sexual innuendo may sometimes offend,
Clothing swap shops and charity bargain buys,
Stain glass window design may come as a surprise.
Conker concussion and a tendency to say fuck,
When kids are around Woodward should look,
A fetish for small feet that she rubs on her face,
Scoring “home” goals at a startling pace.
Events she can manage, but gluten she cannot,
It causes discomfort and her guts start to rot,
An aversion to tuna, she won’t risk food from the sea,
A reaction that hurts when she goes for a pee.
She enjoys a spot of dogging, but just to keep warm,
Not sure if she’s a watcher, or if she likes to perform.
A keyboard player in a band, when she was young,
Now she makes preserves, strawberry or plum.
She enjoys TV programmes that feature glass blowing,
Or other exciting series, like ones with people sewing.
Exploring her family tree, hoping to find some fame,
But a murdering relative was all she could claim.
Any given chance she’ll be on the Foosball table,
With visual grunting, she’s clearly very able,
To smash one in from the back, or with her midfield men,
Of course there’s the odd own goal, scored now and then,
She’s known as Dirty Holly, she has a Cliff Richard obsession,
The Hot Old Men club, we probably shouldn’t mention.
And the sound of the police, is a noise she will make,
Especially when she finds, there’s no gluten in the cake.
