You’re a peculiar looking bugger.
I wouldn’t put a penny on you at the Grand National.
You couldn’t handle a jockey’s weight.
The good news is, when I’m forced
to put you down, I can pull you up again.

You’d be lost in a motorway-side field.
Drivers would certainly stop and stare.

I’m still not used to seeing
bras and pants draped over you
like a wiry blue Tom Jones.

I’m excited to see you try on socks
a hundred times too small for you.

© Carl Burkitt 2020