by Nick Gisburne
It’s cold, believe me, knitting on a cloud,
When pirate penguins taunt you from below.
A serenading seal, I am endowed
With all the moon-filled music of the snow.
Ahoy there, fat flamingos! Are you lost?
Beseech your beaks to bend another way!
And you, the tiger, tickled by the frost,
Begone, and take your toast, without delay!
The mouse who made me master of the skies,
The dolphin-dating daughter of the Pope,
Deserves a plastic parrot as a prize.
The squawk of it is now my only hope.
Tonight I plan to study, with a shrink,
The psychedelic sugar in my drink.
