When Nanny died, her hot water bottle cried;

"I've no one to warm up," she sighed.

Hiding her maker's mark face down,

as sad as a cast off children's clown.

 

The charity shops refused to take her

saying she was unhygienic,

and even though she was made of rubber

and quite dried out, she began to blubber.

 

In spite of her fondness for bodily contact

she'd reached the end of her lifetime contract.

Then one of the grandchildren fell for her,

a novelty in this digital age,

just right for cuddling up to at night.

 

Thus a new lease of life was assured,

her chest again began to swell,

hot bloodied, she came to life again

in a younger bed once more to dwell.