A few haiku from me
By Robert Kingston
still water dusk
the rivers dregs
at the sluice gate
Poem of the week June 7-11~2021 The Japan society
a blackbird
takes flight
The Mainiche (Japanese daily newspaper) 26.6.21
Copyright Rob Kingston
We are a diverse group from all walks of life. Our passion is to write; to the best of our ability and sometimes beyond. We meet on the 2nd and 4th Thursday each month, to read and critique our work in friendly, open discussion. However, the Group is not solely about entertaining ourselves. We support THE ESSEX AND HERTS AIR AMBULANCE by producing and selling anthologies of our work. So far we have raised in excess of £9,700, by selling our books at venues throughout Essex.
By Robert Kingston
still water dusk
the rivers dregs
at the sluice gate
Poem of the week June 7-11~2021 The Japan society
a blackbird
takes flight
The Mainiche (Japanese daily newspaper) 26.6.21
Copyright Rob Kingston
By Rosemary Clarke
By Rosemary Clarke
They bite you here
They bite you there
They bite most blessed anywhere.
The itching almost
Drives you bats
Of course I'm talking about gnats.
And when you're
happy and asleep
Dreaming of those jumping sheep
From near your ear
A little sound
A whine that tells you they're around.
Then you leap up
Turn on the light
But little gnats stay out of sight
Until you sleep
You hear the drone
And wonder if you should leave home.
But Citronella
Candles call
Gnats do not like that stuff at all
So joss sticks, candles
All alight
And little gnats
Will all take fright
Leaving you
To hit the hay
Knowing gnats will stay away.
Copyright
Rosemary Clarke
By Peter Woodgate
I had a dream the other day
That I was in another land
It wasn’t very far away
And love, it drained like coloured sand
Through time.
Wealth, it seemed, was paramount
And gained without the thought for care
It would be stacked too high to count
Without a single plan to share,
Is this a crime?
We were told “this is the way”
To a better life, a future plan
And slogans showed that this would sway
The minds of sheep dressed up as man.
No time to whine.
This land, it chose to isolate
No need for others, it is great
And ruled by one with golden hair
Who lies yet thinks he’s debonair,
Oh mate.
I woke up from this nightmare dream
Sweat on my brow, for it would seem
I was already in this land
Where everything was fine and grand,
But the one with hair like a toilet brush
Will find statistics, with a rush,
Do not match up to those he gave
Then brushed aside with a casual wave.
It appears we accept politicians lies
Forgive them as they rule our lives
With damned deceit and guarded truth
The fact is they are just uncouth.
If only I could trust someone
To tell the truth treat all as one,
But reluctantly know that won’t be
Corruption is the game you see.
And power is the ultimate
We’re damned and we know our fate.
Votes are planned and aimed at those
Who just don’t look beyond their nose
So keep them happy, feed and plot
Don’t worry about the other lot.
I doubt it ever will be fair,
Nor will we find Utopia.
So there it is, I’ve had my say
Thank God for that, I hear you say.
Copyright Peter
Woodgate
By Len Morgan
On Good Friday 6th April
2007 at 3:15pm, I was driving home from work, through Coryton in
I was multi-tasking, as I
drove down a quiet country lane, at thirty miles an hour. Listening to the
annual Easter service on Radio 4, and mulling over the plot of a short story
that had been marinating in my mind for several days. It was a sunny but
bracing spring afternoon, as I approached a small group of cottages on my left.
I glanced in my rear-view mirror and noticed a white van, rapidly
narrowing the gap between us.
A full choir of voices, bass, tenor, baritone, and soprano’s escaped through the speakers of my car stereo. The choral voices soared to a crescendo angelic and harmonious. Beautiful…
“Stop!”
My foot hit the brake. There was a screech of tyres as the van skidded into the back of me, shaking my car as it slammed into my rear bumper. At that precise moment, three young children ran out, from a concealed alley, giggling and shouting. They ran straight into the road in front of my stationary car. Their looks of horror were replaced with surprise, as they realized, I was not going to run them down.
The voice that had boomed from my radio, so commanding and insistent, had saved their young lives, and they would never even know it. The music continued unabated and it occurred to me that had I not stopped I would have passed the spot an instant before the kids appeared.
The van driver came up to my half-open window. He looked dazed. “Thanks to your quick thinking, those kids are still alive,” he said. “If you’d driven by I would have been unable to stop. They would be lying in the road now, badly injured or dying. I don’t know what to say,” he shook my hand vigorously; “I’ve never seen reflexes like that.” His emotions played on his face, for all to see, as the kids ran back into the alley. Somebody behind the van leaned impatiently on his horn. We both ignored it. I got out of my car to inspect my rear end. “No real damage!” I said straightening the bent bumper. “Let’s put it down to our mutual good fortune eh?” I patted him on the back and smiled reassuringly before getting back into my car and carefully driving off.
.-…-.
Half an hour later, I was at
home. I switched on my laptop and booted up the internet. www.bbc.co.uk and reprised the concert I’d
been listening to in the car. I waited expectantly, but there was no
shout, nothing! I played it again and again.
“Not your usual music repertoire,”
said June.
I told her what had
happened. She pondered for a while. “Maybe you heard somebody in
the alley. Maybe they realized the kids might be in danger and called to warn
them?”
“You’re probably right,” I
said, turning back to my laptop, “we can’t expect two miracles in one day.”
She smiled, “something tells
me I shouldn’t be asking...”
“The boss agreed to pay me
time-and-a-half for working today since its Good Friday,” I said.
“Don’t get too embroiled with
that blog of yours Len, dinner is almost ready…”
Copyright Len Morgan
By Len Morgan
In an exclusive private clinic, owned by a multinational pharmaceutical corporation, there is a laboratory run by a genetic chemist Dr Cole Hatcher; a chemical wizard producing man-made substances for therapeutic uses. They are not banned or illegal substances, how could they be? Only their creator and his exclusive clientele know of their existence. Each client knows that his or her medication has been formulated exclusively with their metabolism and physical attributes in mind. True designer drugs, each an exclusive one-off creation. Cole smiled, his empire was built on his ability to manipulate chemistry at the genetic level. Yet, he marveled at the similarity of people at basic levels. Their dreams hopes, desires, and fears are unwaveringly constant. With minor variations, we all crave the same things. Regardless of sex, race, religion, age, and wealth, all men harbour similar hopes, fears, and desires; desires that Cole Hatcher was willing and able to meet on-demand.
He did so by making each client believe their unique experience was created exclusively for them alone. To ensure his secrets would not be copied and mass-produced he maintained one inviolable rule. All medication was prepared by and dispensed by him and No drugs or potions ever left the clinic.
David Janes, a distinguished greying man in his forties, arrived from the station in the house limousine. He walked into the foyé, acknowledging a smile, from the young receptionist, with a curt nod and nervous twitch of his left cheek.
“Good morning Mr Janes, Cole will be with you in a few minutes. Would you please freshen up and change into the robe provided in courtesy room No.4,” she indicated the direction he should take.
He slipped from the shower into the
house green and white toweling robe. His mind cast back one
week to his initial meeting with Dr Cole Hatcher.
.-...-.
He’d arrived with an open mind, but totally unprepared for the tall twig-like young man sporting a goatee in an obvious attempt to add age and dignity to his appearance. But, when Cole spoke, David realised his first impression was flawed.
“David I have total confidence in my ability to fulfill your requirements no matter how bizarre. You can be completely open and say exactly what comes to mind, it will not cause offense, and nothing said in this office will go beyond these walls. You have my word on it,” said Cole.
“And why should I trust you? We have only just met and you haven’t even introduced yourself.”
“My dear Mr Janes…”
“Call me David.”
“I’m sorry David, let me start again.”
“I’m doctor Cole Thatcher,” he offered
his hand with a smile. They sat and talked then arranged a
session for the following week. Within half an hour he was
being driven back to the station.
.-...-.
“We meet again Cole,” he still had to smile at the image the beanstalk doctor presented.
“I know I’m not George Clooney,” said Cole with a disarming boyish grin. “As I explained at our first meeting, you have a complete money-back guarantee. If the experience falls short of your expectations, you walk away and not a single copper coin of the realm will change hands,” he had a slick carnival sideshow patter.
“For twenty-seven years, I was very
happily married to Margaret, the love of my life. She died,
three and a half years ago,” he glanced away to hide the misting of his eyes,
“I miss her more with each passing day. You recall, my dream
was to be with her again for a short time. But, short of death, I
can’t see how that could be accomplished.”
“Swallow the pill with liquid, don’t chew it, the taste is not particularly pleasant,” Cole warned.
“David swallowed it with orange
juice. He was about to make an inconsequential remark, but
when he looked, he was alone. He’d been instructed to go
through the blue door. He found himself walking down a narrow
dimly lit corridor. He felt younger, healthier, and more
vigorous than he had in an age. He looked down at his normally
painful knuckles, genetic arthritis, flexing them he was conscious of the
absence of pain and lack of wrinkles. In fact, he had no pain
anywhere, even his teeth felt strong. He’d lost his front
teeth at the age of twelve in an accident playing rugger at
school. Gauging his height, he realized he was full-grown,
possibly in his late twenties, the age he’d been when he and Margaret had first
met, for the first time since her death, her name failed to invoke the
emotional pain. Because she isn’t dead, he
thought. Recalling a recent promise from a skinny young man
named Cole. He realised this was a dream. He’d been instructed to enter room
No.4. There were hundreds of identical doors ahead and
behind him. The corridor stretched as far as he could see in
either direction. He looked at the nearest door,
No.4. He turned the handle and silently entered.
It was a candle-lit room. The walls were pale and bare, a mattress lay on the floor, covered by a quilted down Douvette. He saw the familiar shape of a young woman beneath the covers. Could it be?
He edged closer, went down on his knees, retrieving a lighted candle stub. Holding the light above, he lifted a corner of the quilt, revealing a tanned dark haired young female form. As he did so, she rose up on one elbow and smiled at him. His breath caught in his throat, and he knew if it were not a dream he would have suffered a heart attack. His face broke into a smile and his eyes filled with tears. They embraced, “Dear sweet Margaret, love of my life.”
They didn’t sleep, they made love repeatedly. It’s so great to be young again. They talked and made plans for the future. As time passed the dream took on the guise of reality, and the last three years seemed just a cruel joke at his expense; he resolved never to sleep again. Margaret produced a French stick cheese and red wine. They laughed and joked, ate and drank, then made love again. Passion spent, they lay embracing watching the false dawn through a small round window, listening to the dawn chorus. When finally the sky lightened they fell asleep in each other's arms.
David awoke, conscious of familiar,
aches and pains. But, he was filled with life, ambition, and
sheer elation. He realized it had been a dream but he didn’t
care.
.-…-.
Alice Prendergast, Ali to her friends,
a smart, mature, woman in her forties had been a widow for four
years. She was wealthy and influential, a woman with physical
needs and the determination to see them met, with as little disruption to her
business and social life as possible. Charlie, her well-endowed and devoted husband had kept her satisfied for twenty-two years, until
his sudden death. After a period of mourning, she found no
shortage of suitors, but they all fell far short of
Charlie. Finally, she gave up on them. A
kindly well-meaning friend gave her the number of an exclusive male escort
agency. To her surprise, she found her frustration was
alleviated overnight, and her physical well-being improved
immeasurably. She looked around and found other agencies, less
reputable but able to cater to her needs, day or night. She
was seeing more men, more frequently than anybody
realized. Her search for Charlie 2 was becoming an obsession.
An escort from a less reputable agency breached the confidentiality clause by writing about her sexploits. He threatened to talk to the tabloid newspapers, he even had pictures. So she bought his silence as any woman in her social position would. Overnight, she stopped using agencies, and for several months led the celibate life of a nun. Then, of all people, her chiropodist told her about 'the clinic'.
.-…-.
On her first visit, she was skeptical,
but hopeful, what had she to lose but time, a commodity she had in
abundance. She took the pill Cole gave her and enjoyed the experience, but
after her third visit, she felt there was something
lacking. She explained to Cole at their debriefing
session.
“The experience was perfect, maybe too perfect. Charlie—in my dream—was better than the original; he was too pre-emptive.” After a long pause, she said, “I no longer wish to continue with these sessions,” to her surprise Cole laughed.
“You know, it’s a plateau, it takes a
dozen visits for some clients to reach that conclusion, others never
do. Three sessions is a new record.”
“So what can you do when somebody rejects the program?” she asked.
“Simple,” he said with a widening grin,
“change the game and modify the rules.”
“My problem you understand is that I
loved Charlie warts and all. The dream was too perfect, it
lacked his humanity.”
“Ali, don’t concern yourself,” Cole said, “It’s my job to iron out such trifling details. Just come back next week, in your usual slot, and you will enjoy an enhanced session, a completely new experience.”
.-...-.
A week later, Cole was
briefing a young man from an escort agency.
“Of course you will appear to be her Charlie, your movements and actions will be his. If you play your part well she will have the experience of a lifetime. One thing could spoil the illusion, we do not have a print of his voice, so on no account should you speak.”
.-…-.
David was to have his first enhanced session on the very same day.
A young woman had been briefed on him and was already waiting in the adjoining room No.5. David walked down the corridor followed by a young man possibly on a similar mission. As David entered his room, the young man entered the room opposite.
The woman was not young. She took his hand and led him to a bed of scatter cushions. They disrobed in the subdued light, admiring each other. He knew she was not Margaret. But, in the deep shadows, he would never know, this would be his first time with another woman since they were married. They kissed tentatively at first, nervously, like two shy young virgins on a first date. They kissed, caressed, and tentatively made love. As they became more familiar their movements became surer and their lovemaking more intense. They rapidly improved and learned from each other, neither spoke, they communicated in other ways. Their passion waxed and waned and waxed again until dawn's light sidled throw the small window. They slept exhausted but satisfied, in each other's arms. In the other room, a young couple had been similarly engaged, each totally absorbed in the other. Mid-morning they retired to their respective rooms to freshen up and return to the outside world. David was very taken with the woman, he supposed her services would be added to his bill, but he had a real desire to continue their association. Even if it was a relationship based on cash. Unlike previous visits, he was completely aware of everything they had done because he had deftly palmed the pill to enable him to have a real experience instead of just a memory.
Having decided that she would enjoy the company of a man who was not a Charlie substitute, Ali did not take the pill either. She had been aware that the evening could easily have ended in failure. It was actually an unqualified success because she knew she’d found a man with whom she could spend the rest of her life. But, there would be a cost. Whatever it was she would pay it.
.-…-.
Ali was driven to the station, in the
house Limo, in plenty of time to catch the 12:10 train to
.-...-.
“You two! How could you possible have gone into the wrong rooms?”
“You told me No.4,” the young woman protested.
“You told me No.5, but the other guy
went into that room and I don’t do same-sex, so I assumed you gave me the wrong
number. If it’s any consolation, we have decided not to accept
payment for the sessions, we are getting married, if it hadn’t been for this
coincidence we might never have met, so our thanks to you, doctor.”
“Does that mean you will no longer be
available? Either of you?”
“Fraid not, we are both seeking a new profession.”
Cole waved them off as they left the staff car park.
.-...-.
“Sir, I found this in Mr Janes’s room.”
One glance told him it was the tablet David should have taken it before entering room No.5. It didn’t matter, he had left an hour after Ali, so it was unlikely that it would pose a problem. 'We are not a dating agency,' he thought.
.-…-.
Ali made inquiries at the
station. She described David to the station staff but none had
seen him that day. David arrived an hour later, the station
was practically deserted, as always. His heart sank, he’d
obviously missed her, or she hadn’t left the clinic.
He approached the ticket office attendant.
“Have you seen a young woman about so
tall, dark hair, delicate features…”
“Aye!” he said, “try ‘the ladies waiting room’, she’s been here about an hour.”
He gazed through the
window. Ali sat with her head in her hands. 'She
probably won't remember me having been under the influence of a mind-altering
drug, when we were last together,' he thought 'Maybe she would be
revolted by a man who needed a substitute for a wife, four years after her
death.' He was stricken with doubt now, maybe it would be
better if he stayed out of her life.
'God, she’s so beautiful,' he thought.
At that moment, she looked up, her head turned in his direction. Her eyes lit up with recognition, anticipation, and something else. Love! All at once, she was in his arms, her perfume filling his being, taking over his life. In that instant, they were both irrevocably changed.
As they kissed they knew, that neither
would be returning to 'the clinic'.
Copyright Len Morgan
By Len Morgan
Aldor approached the village with trepidation; he knew immediately there was something wrong. A cursory mind scan revealed a general air of sadness and melancholy, uncharacteristic of the stoic Tylywoch. Lomax met him, on the outskirts.
"Sanko is dying," he said, and
without further comment led Aldor to the council meeting. The council of elders was gathered, around
a bed raised up, in the center of the chamber.
"He is here," Lomax called out as they cleared a path for Lomax and Aldor all the way to Sanko's bedside.
"I have communicated with the
Emperor," Sanko began without preamble, "he knows I am dying and we
are of one mind on my successor, we have chosen Aldor…" he delivered the message as planned, smiled, and was gone. All eyes turned to Aldor.
"Nothing changes," he said. Sanko has set the path, we have only to follow his directions, it needs but a few fine adjustments otherwise it is sound. Does anyone wish to say anything?" There was a skirmish and Torek forced his way through to the front.
"No!" he yelled, "No! No no! I cannot believe Sanko would be so stupid. You have someway addled his feeble mind. I am second in command and I invoke the leadership challenge, I will fight you to the death," Torek raged.
"That is ridiculous," Aldor replied,
"sleep on it and reconsider. Your
family needs you, and so does the Clan.
By all means, fight me but we still need your knowledge and
experience. The Clan must always come
before personal interests."
"The challenge has been issued and cannot
be rescinded," said Lomax.
"It is his right!"
"So, we all have a right to die but not
to change our minds? That is very
reassuring," Aldor shook his head sad faced.
"We fight at dawn, so you had better get
your beauty sleep Aldor," Torek said, then turned and left the
meeting. Others began to drift away,
and it became obvious the meeting was over.
"Walk with me Lomax," he said.
"Are you afraid of him?" Lomax
asked.
"Of course I'm afraid of what he might
do, therefore I am also afraid for him. He is a good captain, a man we cannot afford
to lose. If he killed me, I would name
him my successor without question. I
cannot, no I will not kill him," his face was set in a determined scowl.
"The time is set. Sun up tomorrow," Lomax said
formally. "Take his good advice
and get a good night's rest." He
entered the Kebu and went to his quarters, unsmiling. Aldor was the new leader but his viewpoint was a
little skewed on this matter, his attitude was sure to get him killed.
.-…-.
He’d fought
to the death before, but killing sickened him.
"I will fight you, but I will not kill you," he said to Torek.
"This confirms you are not Tylywoch and are not man enough to lead us. I hope you have named a successor," said Torek with a mirthless grin.
"I have," said Aldor, "but, I will live to hear you eat your words. You will discover I am everything you say I am not."
An arrow was fired into the air, when it landed the combat would begin. A wide rope circle had been marked off, but there were no expectant faces lining the perimeter. Aldor looked into Torek's eyes; they were calm and devoid of emotion, no hate and no fear. This would be like no contest he’d ever had before; there were no watchers, no agreed weapons, and no rules. Just faces at windows briefly, disappearing moments before the start.
"How do we proceed?" Aldor asked,
turning towards Torek. But, Torek was
gone. He backed up rapidly, until his
back was against the nearest building, casting around, with his mind, as widely
as possible to locate his adversary.
Hate, anger, and aggression act as beacons in his experience but, he
could find nothing.
A stout fence post hit him in the throat. He staggered to his knees choking, realising
Torek was on the roof. He looked up and
a large rock hit him full in the face.
His head spun and his mind became fogged, reality becoming fantasy, he
dropped to the ground and rolled. His mind
returned to the previous evening.
"What are the rules of engagement"
he'd asked.
Lomax had smiled and shaken his head in
disbelief "stay alive and kill without being killed."
As he lay fighting for breath, blood gushing
from both a pulped nose and a crushed larynx, he wondered why he had expected
the Tylywoch to fight by some arcane code of chivalry. He cursed, he had been mad to even consider
subduing Torek, he would be lucky to escape with his life… He squeezed his larynx back into some shape, coughed and spat out blood, shook his
head, spraying blood in all directions, he lay still as if dead. But, even as he did so he knew his body was
on the mend, repairing itself, a thousand times faster than any normal body
would. Torek had dealt him two potentially
mortal wounds within seconds of each other.
He would know the power of his blows and would not expect Aldor to
recover. That would create Aldor’s only
opportunity to fight back. Torek would
never expect any man to recover from such multiple trauma. He would relax, believing his opponent
either dead or dying. Aldor lay
patiently still. He would need to move
with the speed of lightning. Already
his beauty had been marred by the efficiency of the man. Suddenly, Torek was there, towering over
him. He slowly raised the blood-drenched post, to finish the job, to despatch his opponent efficiently and
painlessly. Aldor remained cool and
unemotional, anchored his shoulders on the hard-packed earth, uncoiling like a
snake. His kick struck at Torek's
groin. He made contact and heard the
big man grunt with pain. Saw him double
forwards and kicked him clinically in the head to complete the job. Torek raised a cloud of dust and shook the
earth as he fell beside Aldor. Aldor
stood up and dragged himself to the well.
Filling a leather bucket with water he emptied it over the still
unconscious Torek. "Get up big
man, the fight is over, and you are still alive, but there is work to be done. Though I admit that was fun! We must do it again sometime" he said
grinning from ear to ear. "Now,
tell me you will give me a chance to prove I am worthy of Sanko's trust."
"What if I refuse?" Torek groaned.
"That would be for the council to decide
but, you are family, we need you. It is
in the best interest of the Tylywoch," he offered Torek his hand.
Accepting Torek said, "what role could I fill
after being deputy to Sanko for five years?"
"I'm sure we could find you
something."
"Such as?"
"Well, deputy to me if you care to
continue in that role."
"But, I have and always will voice my
opinion on any decisions I think are not in the best interest of the
Clan."
"That is a perfect description of the
role of a Deputy leader," said Aldor.
"But, you said you'd named a successor in
the event of your death today, would he not be the better choice?"
Aldor considered, "Yes I suppose you are
right."
"Then…"
"I named you! You oaf,” Aldor slapped him on the
back. "You could fill the role of
leader as well as I, probably better.
Why you have effectively been doing the job these past three months and
I hope you will continue to do so, because I will be away, for some
considerable time, organising the next phase.
Come, man, what do you say?"
Sanko nodded ascent.
"Good man, we are all in your debt"
Aldor gave him a squeeze, an uncharacteristic burst of emotion, causing others
to look away in embarrassment.
"Put me down you overgrown bear
cub," said Torek with a wry grin, holding out his hand. “I’m your
Aldor took it and with a deft twist of the
wrist, Torek had him in his power. He
had an arm around Aldor's neck, from the rear, Aldor flicked up his heel making
contact with Torek's groin for the second time in minutes.
"Ooh Ya!" he stifled back a curse.
"Sorry," said Aldor "I know you
could have broken my neck had you wanted to but I had to know you could be
trusted. I am not so naïve as I might
appear."
"Then you can't read minds?" said
Torek.
Aldor smiled "Now that would make life so
much easier would it not?"
"I'm hungry," Torek changed the
subject, "let's breakfast, this chill air is getting into my bones. You need to do something about your face, it
looks a mess…"
"And thank you for the workout," said
Aldor as they walked side by side towards Torek’s home. His wife met them, offering Aldor a full
washbowl and towels. When they had
eaten, she dressed their wounds, scolding Torek critically for his poor
workmanship.
"I suppose you will use these few
scratches as an excuse to avoid your manly duties" she chided Torek
playfully, more in relief that he had survived than anything.
Aldor smiled, and winced with genuine pain, as she dressed his wounds, but a day later, the wounds on his face were practically healed. However, he kept the coverings on, for a further week, for the sake of appearances. He would have done so anyway just to see that smug look of satisfaction on Torek’s face. His was the moral victory; as Aldor had always intended.
The
coverings were still in place when he left for his first meeting, with the
Emperor, as leader of the Tylywoch. The
Emperor resided in the
(to be continued)
Copyright
Len Morgan
By Peter Woodgate
These confessions that I’m making
Are transcribed by my mate Tom
A cat, I met in our garden
But I don’t know where he’s from.
I can’t write this myself, you see,
Cos my paws can’t hold a pen,
So Tom, he kindly offered,
If I didn’t bark at him again.
He sometimes leaves me messages,
I leave some for him too,
Humans, they don’t understand,
The information in a piece of poo.
I know that I should do that
When we go for a walk,
But I save some for the garden
So Tom and I can talk.
Sometimes I wee upon the lawn,
My Dad, it makes him mad,
Those little brown patches on the green,
He thinks that I am bad.
I must confess, I do, do some,
But the foxes do some too,
If you don’t believe me, ask them,
They will tell you that it’s true.
Mostly though, we get on well,
My Mum, my Dad and me
yet still I do some naughty things,
but that’s just me you see.
I’ve made a hole in my nice new bed
And my toys, I just tear them to bits,
My Dad thinks it’s funny when we play “tug”
But my Mum says it gets on her glands.
Despite the fact that I have my own bed
I prefer to sleep on theirs,
When I hear them say “it’s time for bed”
I’m the first one up the stairs.
My Mum says that I snore a lot
And the sound is really bad
But I am “off the hook” you see,
Cos it’s not as loud as my Dad.
I don’t know why, but I get the urge,
To tear around the house,
I jump on chairs and break some things,
Then I’m quiet as a mouse.
I look at them with soulful eyes
And know they are not cross for long,
They love me you see, for being just me,
In their eyes, I can do no wrong.
I love them too, with all my heart,
On good days, and bad, just the same,
I know these things and pull all the strings
In this world, there is no better game.
Copyright Peter
Woodgate