When Ingrid gives up smoking
She takes up choking chickens.
She tells them she is joking
But their sad expression sickens

Herself and all her friends.
She makes her nieces cry.
So her break from smoking ends
And the chickens jump with joy.

She needs another hobby
To replace the cigarettes.
Her friends try hard to lobby
For some golf or tennis sets.

But she's bored to tears by tennis.
As a hobby it's too bland.
And she'll always be a menace
With a golf club in her hand.

She has a go at rowing
But it fails to satisfy her.
And as for pumpkin-growing
Its attraction passes by her.

She tries to form a jazz band
But they soon fall down a hole.
If football games went as planned
She would score the winning goal,

But instead she keeps colliding
With gorillas dressed as players.
Some team-mates are in hiding
Behind hedges, saying prayers.

She hikes through fields and hills
And she spends weekends in hovels.
She sets up whiskey stills
And she writes some short crime novels.

They're written all in numbers.
The killer's always four.
While its victim, seven, slumbers
It tip-toes across the floor.

But painting is the pastime
To replace unhealthy smoking.
After smoking for the last time
She can still refrain from choking.

She's great at painting shoulders
But she's not so good with heads.
They'll look a lot like boulders
Or resemble Mr. Ed's.

That's why you'll see so many
Headless people in her pictures.
Her ninety-year-old granny
Doesn't mind the lack of fixtures.

But some friends are freaked out
By their lack of head and hair.
Without a nose and mouth
They'd need other holes for air.