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.