Poem By Tim Sully

My hat
It’s not all that
But it sits on me quite nicely
Though I couldn’t say precisely
Why I like it so much
It’s a fairly simple millenary object
A hand me down from my late aunt May
A vintage model from ‘85
(That’s the year by the way-
She was 76)

I walk in it, play in it
Ride on my bike in it
Sleep in it too if the air turns cold
I’m a living snapshot
For the Marks and Spencer archives
This hat is my fortune: no kidding, no messing
A shining example of cross generation dressing
I’m pressing parliament to give me a voice
“Vote for the hat: it’s the only choice! ”

I realise my specs are a trifle rosy
Seeking kudos in an old dear’s tea-cosy
It’s grey and it’s woolly
And it can’t climb trees
But my chapeau gris
Blocks out the breeze
And though it’s just a hat
It matters to me
An’ if I lost my hat
I’d be really mad
But sadly I’d merely be
As mad as a hatless

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Is a chair aware of the derriere there?
Does it care that you take up its space?
Does it ever purport to offer support
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I saw your car
He was there, in the passenger seat
Complete with sunglasses
And a crooked smile

I Can'T Sleep

I can’t sleep
‘Cos all the sheep
That help me doze
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