Archive for April, 2015

April 29, 2015

Looking Out of the Window

One day, I will climb the sky

And catch a cloud, as it sails on by,

Past roofs, and spires, and tops of trees,

Blown by breath of billowing breeze,

Till far out to sky, my home will seem

A glimpse of long-forgotten dream.

And as my sail-cloud turns and twists,

I’ll watch new cities rise in mists

As far behind me old ones fall,

Though from up here they’ll look so small.

And then, as I’m blown through blackest night,

I will snuggle myself in the pillowy white

Of the cloud’s soft deck. And there I’ll sleep

All through the dark, so silent, deep,

Where lonely stars still sing the birth

Of moons and suns and each new earth.

Then in the morning’s first pink blush

I’ll hoist my cloud-sails up and rush

Through fire-tinged waves of new-dawned air,

Then steer my cloud-ship on to where

I’ll land on the sands of an unmapped shore

And join with the song of the wild world’s roar.

One day.



April 27, 2015


Why do they call them tentacles?

It’s true that it makes us sounds great.

The word, though, is wrong; our tickles are long

But we normally only have eight.

April 24, 2015

Cat Song

Let me get this right.

Does your bed move round at night?

Yes, I wonder – does it wander? Does it walk?

When you’re settling for a snooze, does you bed put on its shoes?

Does it stutter utter mutter – does it talk?

Will it shake and shuffle-shift? Will it wiggle jiggle lift?

Might it seem like there’s an earthquake in your naps?

Yes, it’s really quite traumatic when your bed is not so static,

Which is why we all meow ‘DON’T MOVE YOUR LAPS!’

April 17, 2015

Butter Fly

For weeks the butter waited.

For weeks the butter sat.

A glowing golden rectangle,

A little patient pat.

For weeks the butter’s brain ached.

For weeks the butter tried.

The effort made it melt a bit,

A greasy tearful tide.

At last it all got eaten,

Used up in a stew.

That poor deluded butter,

Which never, ever flew.

April 13, 2015

The Cows

There are shadowy forms in the fields,

Concealed in a coating of mud.

By each fencepost and gate they’re lying in wait;

They’re out to get your blood.

Chewing up innocent daisies,

They lurk and leer and loom.

‘Moowoo!’ they say as they leap from the hay:

Beware the Cows of Doom.



These legions of cattle are out to do battle;

Just feel the raw chill of their breath.

They’re plotting and scheming, so run away screaming!

All that they want is your death.

While eating their oats, they’re after your throats;

They’ll see that you’re safe in your tomb.

‘Moowoo!’ they cry at each poor passer-by:

Beware the Cows of Doom.



April 10, 2015

Wildwood Services

If your piggies are being pig-headed,

Or grannies are giving you grief,

Just call Dial-a-Wolf on this number;

Their lives will be suitably brief.

Our prices are all fairly modest,

You’ve nothing to fear from our fee.

And we don’t charge a bit for late payment;

Though we might eat you up for our tea.



April 8, 2015

Some Bananas

Some bananas are yellow.

Some bananas are green.

And some bananas are just the right size

For giving your ears a good clean.

April 6, 2015


It’s true that our faces have pimples,

And our teeth don’t look perfectly straight.

We’ve never had cute little dimples,

And maybe our figures aren’t great.

But just because Cinders is pretty,

And our mum went and married her dad,

That horrible brat just wants pity,

And tells the whole world that we’re bad!

We’re always doing the housework,

While she simply sits on her bum,

And when we dare tell her she’s lazy,

She bawls ‘You’re so mean! I want mum!’

Then dear little Cinders will simper,

With tears in her lovely blue eyes,

And claim that she acts as our slave-girl.

Baloney! She’s telling you lies!

All that she wants is to marry –

As long as he’s handsome, of course,

Is loaded with gold and with money,

And cuts quite a dash on a horse.

A career? For Cinders? Forget it!

She just wants to go to a ball,

And wear the most ludicrous dresses.

She thinks that in life, that is all.

So yeah, we are not really lookers

(Though Cinders’ the one who complains),

But while that small brat is off whining,

We will be using our brains.