Stars in Jars (10 page)

I live in a rubber tub,

it's a very fancy home,

my ceiling's made of lily pads,

I really cannot moan.

At night I go for a wander,

slurp up a worm or two,

flick on a fly, and wonder why,

some frogs live in a zoo.

For pudding I like a slug,

slimy and black as coal,

I lick my lips and open my mouth

and swallow my captive whole.

I plan on living for forty years,

squelching in the mud,

basking in the morning sun,

if I could dance a jig I would.

On hot days in July,

when I'm feeling sleepy-snoozie,

a hose pipe fills my fancy home,

and turns it into a jacuzzi.

I may be a two-toed sloth,

but you should see me move,

I can run faster than a garden snail,

my fur is green and smooth.

I go to the toilet once a week,

I never need a drink,

I suck the moisture from my food –

it leaves me time to think.

If I get up in the morning

and find a shoe on the lawn,

a shoe on the patio,

a sandal in a flower pot –

what do you suppose?

If I take them inside

and find another shoe is missing

and I find that shoe

upside-down in a freshly dug hole –

what do you suppose?

That I left the back door open by mistake?

That while I was sleeping a fox crept in?

That she giggled loudly as she passed my door?

Did she peep at me sleeping?

Did she hear my sonorous snore?

If I knew how I got here

I wouldn't have commmmmmmmmme,

those doors banged shut,

that was the end of my funnnnnnnnnnn,

I'm buzzing around

and causing a hummmmmmmmmmmm,

they're all looking up

and they think I am dummmmmmmmb.

I want to escape,

get back to the sunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn,

that boy's going mad

and grabbing his mummmmmmmmmm,

if we weren't in a tunnel

I know they'd all runnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn,

at last, King's Cross,

my tube journey's donnnnnnnnnnnnnnne.

a murmuration of starlings

became

a clattering of choughs

a quarrel of sparrows

gave way to

a squabble of seagulls

despite

a scolding of jays

what followed was

a murder of crows

Broken black streaks

feather his throat,

black eyebrows shoot

into a Mandarin's moustache.

Eyes staring ahead,

rigid as the cement pterodactyl

in flight to his right,

head darts down.

He straightens with a fish in his beak,

slowly gulping,

like sucking

on a saved caramel.

As I wait for the right current of air

a moonbeam glistens on my claw.

I take off from the highest mountain –

not without grace,

not without speed,

and with a spine of pride

which tingles to my gleaming teeth –

I'm the largest creature to fly.

Gliding over the lake I make

a black shadow with my shape,

warm blood pumps through my jaw.

I swoop on a sleeping frog,

look up at the swarming stars,

then end his dream with a snap.

You'll know me from my hooked beak,

my beady eyes, the way I hang my wings

to dry. I stand on a post in the lake,

relish the breeze rustling my feathers.

You'd think my wings were waterproof –

I spend so much time submerged,

but I rather like hanging around

after a surge through waves and rain.

I can ponder the state of the nation,

watch walkers walking their mutts.

If I didn't have this quiet time,

I'd go completely nuts!

Flamingos are gregarious birds,

they rarely stand alone,

twenty thousand in one place,

not one allowed to moan.

For if they started –

“My leg is aching,”

“A bone's stuck in my U-bend neck,”

they'd drive each other flamingo crazy,

so they just say, “Flipping heck!”

Have you any idea how scared I am?

I'm three weeks old, I've no feathers,

and I'm supposed to fly?

This cliff edge has been my home,

now it's the launch pad

to the rest of my life!

I've been standing here

for two hours now.

My mum can nudge me

as much as she likes,

I am NOT jumping into that sea!

It's miles away!

She keeps telling me it's ‘do or die',

I either take the leap

or I'm lunch for a herring gull.

Well I'm going nowhere!