Cupid the Mouse.

He flies through the air,
And cries 'Eek-eek!'
He lands on your hair
And happily does squeak.

He sends out an arrow
Into your true love's heart.
Into yours, one will follow
And you two will never part.

Of Mice and Carrots.

My mouse, he has wierd habits,
The things he does are odd.
He chases after rabbits, and
For their carrots he has trod
Over hilltop, through valley
Then snatches up the veg.
Those orange things he does carry
Through bush and through hedge.

He thinks they are spaceships,
Gifts from above.
He straddles them with his hips
And proclaims, 'Peace and Love!'
For he is a space mouse,
Blasted from the Outer Rim,
So give to your mouse a carrot,
Perhaps the same is true of him.

Fish.

If a goldfish swam from one side of its bowl to the other,
I can't help but wonder if one day it would discover,
That its world is round and glassy, and there's nothing good to read.
Though the bright pink stones are classy, and you may get to see a weed.
What good is that if years ago you lost the will to survive?
And your wife ran away with a fish called Joe just because he could play the fife.
Oh, I'm glad I'm not a goldfish, especially not him,
I'm happy just being a human, I prefer to walk than swim.
But does the goldfish really like its world so bare and cold?
Would it like to become a pike before it gets too old?
But let's end these odd, odd words with something for the soul,
If you're ever really, really bored, think of the goldfish in his bowl.

Ode to a Pair of Finely Tuned Scissors.

My scissors make a glorious 'ting' if I tap them there,
Just Right.
Or alternatively, a marvellous 'tong' if I tighten them,
More Tight.
If I open and close them quickly, I get a beautiful
'Click'.
And they never ever once have ever ever begun
To Stick.
The curve of the handle, the point of the blade,
So Pointy.
Let's count the pairs I have in my house,
Twenty.
But my pair's the best, and I keep them together,
Quite Tight.
So if I ever tap them there, the 'ting' it tings,
Just Right.

Indecision.

I think I'm writing a poem,
At least that is what I think,
I'm writing, I think, a poem,
Yes, I'm writing a poem, I think.

I think I'll use a pen,
A pen I think I will use,
And if I could use the pen,
Then I think the pen I'll use.

Yes, I'm writing this down on paper,
On paper I'm writing this down,
Down this writing goes on the paper,
For I'm writing, on paper, this down.

The ink, it runs from the nib,
From the nib, the ink it runs,
It runs, the ink, from the nib,
Yes, the ink from the nib does run.

The words do sit in rows,
And in rows the words do sit,
For however hard I try, if I try very
hard, and I try and I try however hard,
Indeed however hard I try, and try and
try indeed I try however hard, however
hard do I try,
If I try to put them in columns,
The words just will not fit.

Marauding Peanuts

They comes, child,
They comes again,
Out of wild
Cupboard, then,
Us they chases
Around the house
I sees their faces
And it be doused
With the butters, child,
The butters and breads
From cupboard wild,
Is over their heads
Like paint of war,
Like scary they be,
Out of the door
They be chasing me.

The Tale of the Mysterious Door

The fish came marching six by six,
With monacles and walking sticks,
With cameras poised for taking pics
'The door! We must find the door!'

Tomatoes in a long, long line,
With collections of oil paintings fine
And hoisting up a huge big sign:
'The door! We must find the door!'

Along float the clouds, a dozen or more,
Never getting too near the floor,
Occasionally making the rain downpour
They float along straight through the door.

They walked for miles, scratching their heads,
The fish, the tomatoes, the whole big crowd,
And far away, the clouds laughed out loud,
For the door had passed just over their heads.

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