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Midnight. A knock at the door.Open it? Better had.Three heavy cats, mean and bad.
Thomas Farynor, Baker to the King,Left his oven burning with the firewood nearby.The embers muttered, the little flames took wing
'On buses and trains you wouldn't believeThe crazy things that passengers leave:
A pair of crutches, I kid you not,Hot-waterbottle, full but no longer hot
I’ve got the Teach-them-in-the-morning-Playground-duty-Teach-them-in-the-afternoon blues.My head’s like a drum;My feet, cold and sore.
We finished with a song on the football pitchSinging all along on the football pitch Had a little sing with a sing-song-singHad a little fling with a ding-dong-ding
The light through the blind is a poem,
the way it illuminates air.
And the shadows that fall
on the floor and the wall
are signs that a poem is there.
The man sitting on the settee,stroking a cat and watching TVisn't me.I am the settee.
Hand on the bridgefeel the rhythm of the train.
Hand on the windowfeel the rhythm of the rain.
Hand on your throatfeel the rhythm of your talk.
Hello! thanks for callingI'm just off on my bikeThat's my room up thereTake a look if you like.
A stranger called this morningDressed all in black and greyPut every sound into a bagAnd carried them away