For four years now you’ve wanted my legs;
their length and stride impressing you.
Sure, I can skip over tall skyscrapers
and could be used as a bridge
for all kinds of capers,
but I fear the beauty of your pins, your pegs,
your magic pocket legs,
are something you haven’t thoroughly thought through:
Remember the time we hung out in the fridge,
daring each other
to run through the butter?
Well I went first, breathing in through my nose,
but my huge feet squashed the tub,
smearing Lurpak all over my toes.
Then you giggled a giggle, did a sweet pirouette,
and glided across like a
butterfly mid- flutter.
How about the time, after years of hard work,
when we were chosen by NASA to explore
the vastness of space?
We had picnics in our rocket and
floated all day, but when it came to
bedtime my legs were in the way.
Rather than moan and kick me out of bed,
you created more space by curling up your legs
and sleeping inside your pillowcase.
What about the day we walked in the forest
and I accidentally crushed the Smurf village
and its people?
The noise was dreadful as things set on fire;
lots of men died
and poor old Smurfette just cried and cried.
But your tiny frame meant you were at their level,
so you helped calm them down and rebuild their town,
including a gorgeous church steeple.
And don’t forget that day when you
challenged me to a race;
requiring us both to be a jockey on small a black cat.
My awkwardly large legs got instantly tangled,
leaving me and the poor pussy
Yet like a little Barbie doll, you sat astride your beast,
and darted the 100 metre distance in 10 seconds flat.
So whilst it’s true that my legs are both massive and long,
do you really wish yours were like these?
Because my clumsy limbs,
all gangly and thin,
leave me as agile as rigid oak trees.
I’d say it’s far more attractive to be lovely and small,
like plug sockets or wooden pegs,
because if you weren’t so small,
and were in fact quite tall,
you wouldn’t have your magic pocket legs.
© Carl Burkitt 2013