Slowly strumming the guitar, They wondered what it’s like to be a star. A ball of plasma, so bright, Speckling the sky in the night, A dream seemingly close, but alas far.
A big baby bounced its blue bottle, While the siblings squealed and squabled. A noisy, nonsense night, Parents pleading a pointless plight, Terrified to be tackled and toppled.
A beagle was being walked down the street, Full of hot, tasty treats. Since outside was its loo, It stopped for a poo, Making room for some more things to eat!
There once was a chicken named Nell, Who crossed the road and then fell. Cursing every cuss, Didn’t see the school bus, Well, that joke certainly didn’t end well.
A weaver was working away, Moving swiftly their body did sway. “What a gift I have woven, But who will be chosen? Upon whose lap will this be loved on and laid?”
It can sometimes be hard to see, Any light through the dark of the trees. Feeling so alone and and so bleak, Hold your hand out and seek, Another’s, to find the power of we.
Perfect is what practice makes, All the time and sweat it does take, To learn a new skill, Using all of your will, No matter how much you feel like a fake.
Alone on their own they mean little, But strung together, it’s committal. Many meanings are made, And interpretations are weighed, Often wrapped in a context or riddle.