A PIECE OF NONSENSE VERSE, A MIND LEFT TO WANDER.
There stands a blackbird with his feathers so bright,
muttering in rhymes, unaware his plumage is white
as he reads the Times.
Inky rain falls from the sky onto the old man’s hovel,
he catches it in tins, stirs it twice and pours out a novel,
about mankind’s sins.
Green cats, seldom seen walk three foot off the ground,
they’ve grace and poise, and so never make any sound,
apart from all their noise.
When they greet each other they prefer it back to back,
which should be banned, for due to a recognisable lack
they shake the wrong hand.