I need to find some time to feed
  The cat before I cut the grass.
If I'm to pull the weeds as well
  I'll have to mime to clean the glass.

And then I'll dust the furniture
  And light a fire to burn the post,
And after that I'll try to fight
  The aftermath of Sunday's roast.

I'll prune the plants and tune pianos,
  Bin those banjos Roger strums
To frighten mice and Emma's friends
  Who fight the noise by beating drums.

But time is lost when Granny tells
  Her many stories of her youth.
Details come adorned with bells
  That warn of ornamented truth.

She says she went to Canada
  To find a man who ran away.
He needed to be gone and then
  Begin again to plan a day,

And feel idyllic freedom in
  A boundless land to guide his soul.
Granny says she found him with
  A Basset hound inside a hole.

She coaxed him from his hillside home.
  They roamed the land on dated bikes.
A basket held the Basset hound.
  He wore his socks and boots on hikes.

In boats on lakes they'd float beneath
  A bright aurora sharing night
With stars and ancient creatures teaching
  Pensioners the art of flight.

Her stories of adventures keep me
  Entertained when I should clean
The muddy stains on rugs that flood
  The study where the dog has been.

When members of her book club call
  The start date for these mounting chores
Will be delayed as I delete
  All plans to deal with stains on floors.

The book club throbs with real intrigue.
  Mrs. Doyle's a mystery.
She'll be too vague or feign fatigue
  When asked about her history.

Her views on books have triggered doubt.
  She seems to know an awful lot
About unlawful deeds and deaths
  That breathe life in a novel's plot.

Characters of ill-repute
  Will leave her head replete with thought
On finer points of poise and pose
  When poison's poured on chicken broth.

Bread knives stuck in victim's backs
  Attract her eager scrutiny.
She knows the tricks of wicked aunts
  And youthful maids who grew to be

The beautiful blackmailer with
  A single truthful tale to tell,
The influential femme fatale
  Enthralling fools who fall to hell,

And still will feel her spell as flames
  Engulf their souls where golf once reigned.
The eighteen holes of hell are played
  On ploughed-up hills while feet are chained.

She'll lose herself in lies and roles
  To see a subtle ruse in bloom.
She'll be the blushing bride until
  A tide will come to claim her groom.

Mrs. Doyle has told us tales
  And held us spellbound by her words,
With frank accounts of fronts and feints
  And bank accounts that lose three thirds.

I joined the club to hear her talk
  Of thieves who seek to raid a heart.
It sounds as if she's speaking of
  Events in which she played a part.

She says she heard these stories from
  A friend who spends a lot of time
Perusing views outlined in tomes
  About the boiling pot of crime.

We're still left in the dark about
  Her past suppressed beneath a veil.
And did her friend provide her with
  A list of what they eat in jail?

Book club meetings last for hours
  Because of her immense accounts
Of tense encounters, hints of threats,
  Tangled tricks and cheques that bounce.

When meetings end the members leave
  And memories arise and shine.
Granny speaks of bikes that float
  Above a straight horizon line.

I'll wait until her tale is told
  And rage takes hold to make her rant
Against the book club's latest choice.
  She'll have to face a month of Kant.

Some timid members tremble when
  The words of Mrs. Doyle take flight.
They chose the works of Kant to end
  Accounts of screams and crimes at night.

While Granny's hurling brick-like words
  Instead of building walls of bull,
And Bob, her cat, unfurls himself
  From hours of sleep on balls of wool,

I'll take this chance to prune the plants
  And see if certain stains remain.
I'll go to bed so dreams can draw
  The spotless curtains in my brain.