THE SECRET LIFE OF
WALTER'S MITTENS

by
Gary Hogg

  There was a jumble sale at Amblethwaite Scout Hut
Not last Sunday, Sunday before
And our Walter knew, he'd be first in the queue
He took a flask and camped out at the door

He woke up on the step the next morning
With damp trousers, stiff neck and back ache
He'd to make sure to get back his belongings
That their Mam gave away by mistake

He wasn't bothered about the Broons book or bike pump
Or his clothes or the rest of the clutter
It was his old woolly mitts, all holey and split
That were making him behave like a nutter

He paid the Scoutmaster ninepence to get the mitts back
He thought Walter was out of his head
Paying that for some raggy old mittens
But he'd've paid him ten bob if he'd said

You see the mitts had been knit by his Grandma
From an old Persian rug she'd unravelled
It was an ugly old matted-up eyesore
That Grandpa'd picked up on his travels

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