It's not easy being perfect

I only know I am

I think that its inherited

I get it from my gran

She always knew the right thing

To say, and what to do

Like curing my hiccups

Or making Irish stew

She used to knit my sweaters

Put patches on my jeans

If I couldn’t understand

She’d tell me what it means

Though she’s no longer with us

And I miss her every day

I don’t need her to tell me

What to do or what to say

I don’t need to ask the questions

Cos she taught me all too well

I now know all the answers

So school can go to Hell