The spider's web is on the move,
And quite without his scant permission.
He steps down upon his stoop
To see his world go by.
He made the mistake of making his home
In the handlebar of my mountain bike.
His terra firma turned out to be not too firm.
So now he desperately looks for hope.
He finds some at my fingertips,
Then creeps up further
The soft skin on the back of my hand.
I pick him up and give him a blow,
And he para-sails with legs un-akimbo.
He lands in the autumn grass in the ditch
At the edge of a deep, sweet wood.
And this is his forever after,
A happy one? I like to think?
For this is the forest where the piggy lives
With the ring in the end of his nose.
This— the eternal honeymoon site
Of the owl and the pussycatAnd quite without his scant permission.
He steps down upon his stoop
To see his world go by.
He made the mistake of making his home
In the handlebar of my mountain bike.
His terra firma turned out to be not too firm.
So now he desperately looks for hope.
He finds some at my fingertips,
Then creeps up further
The soft skin on the back of my hand.
I pick him up and give him a blow,
And he para-sails with legs un-akimbo.
He lands in the autumn grass in the ditch
At the edge of a deep, sweet wood.
And this is his forever after,
A happy one? I like to think?
For this is the forest where the piggy lives
With the ring in the end of his nose.
This— the eternal honeymoon site
And their never rustable, runsable spoon.
And yet tomorrow, when the page is turned,
I will be sure to check my handlebars
Very thoroughly!
(And you can bet your sweet patootie on that.)
-jenn long
No comments:
Post a Comment