Jupiter, Venus, Neptune and Mars,
All the planets and shooting stars.
They all gaze down on an only boy
Who dreams of space, with his space toys.
Who, at the sound of the dinner gong
Will rush to the table and won’t think it’s wrong
To play with his food,
To him it’s not crude; he’ll turn his meat into a rocket cruise.
When he goes to bed at night
He stares out the window, though try as he might
He cannot think of any brainwave
To help him find a crater or cave.
‘Why?’ he whispers, ‘why oh why
Can I not soar up past the sky?’
And when he beds down, of space he dreams.
To him, the planets are clearly supreme.
On his birthday, the boy opens
Alien films and astronaut pens.
But at the end of the day
With space presents coming his way,
A larger package through the post,
Makes his heart leap the most.
For it contains a loving dog,
Not named Lucky, nor named Zog,
But greyhound Bobbie, Bobbie the dog.
Now our boy is aged nineteen
And has more-or-less passed his teens,
But while taking out his pet
Bobbie the dog runs off and gets a leaflet
And, as the boy reads,
His eyes get wider, then he screams,
‘Oh my gosh! My woes; simply gone!’
And now we’ve all heard of him:
by Lily Morris (10)
Competition - Poetry Detectives
Copyright remains with the author.