His father grew cacti in polystyrene cups
His mother drew pictures no-one understood
He grew up prickly more quickly than us
I guess that’s why we called him
Old Spike
Their place was a pig-sty but no-one much cared
Some say there was a sister but no-one knew where
When pressed on the subject he’d stiffen and stare
But I never thought to press
Old Spike
Now I’m drinking cold tea from a polystyrene cup
As summer roles over I can picture them both
Spike and his sister in Aberystwyth or Ayr
A smile growing wild on Old Spike
A child growing wild in me