I’m back in London after a lovely weekend away in Cumbria with Will.

When we were travelling back yesterday I ticced, “Poems about sponges”

Will, knowing my tics would take the bait, said ‘Sponge Poem 1’, and the following strange stanzas rolled out:

TH: “Sponge, sponge glorious sponge
Dreaming of discos
While cleaning your bum.”

Will: “Sponge Poem 2”

TH: “SpongeBob cleaned the carpet of a mouse,
Sponge out your mother’s mouth.
SpongeBob is more industrious than Big Ben.”

Will: “Sponge Poem 3”

TH: “Imagine a sponge tickling the sheep’s toes,
Imagine the sheep laughing.”

Intriguing as they are, I probably won’t release an anthology.