POETRY

POETRY

Poetry moved in on Sunday,
Without a bag or key,
It climbed inside the cupboard,
And ate my bread for tea.

It slept beneath my pillow,
And snored in perfect rhyme,
Then stole the hands from off my clock,
To give itself more time.

It swallowed all my commas,
And spat my full stops out,
It filled my shoes with adjectives,
And made my slippers shout.

At three it woke my tired head,
And danced behind my eyes,
It dressed the truth in purple socks,
Then called the moon a lie.

I tried to trap it in a book,
And firmly shut the door,
But poetry squeezed through the spine,
And puddled on the floor.

The verses marched along the hall,
The rhymes climbed up the wall,
One sonnet swung from curtains,
While limericks chased them all.

I caught a stanza by its tail,
It bit me on the thumb,
Then rolled itself beneath the stairs,
And started beating drums.

The neighbours called the police out,
They searched till nearly three,
But poetry wore my dressing gown,
And blamed the noise on me.

At dawn it kissed my forehead,
Then climbed inside my pen,
I knew the house was safe at last,
Until it laughed again.

So when they call me poet,
I smile and let it be,
For poetry owns every word,
And merely borrowed me.