Overnight
The wooden bunny changed his form:
He now looks like a chicken,
Hiding from the gathering storm.
My, how the pot does thicken!
Into the plot the chicken goes;
Simmer for six hours or more;
Look to the dog if you need more bark,
Or check the corner grocery store.
Remember what your mother said,
”A watched clock only has two hands,
Boil and simmer, high and low;
So don’t expect celestial bands
To play at Whiskers’ funeral.”
The gathering storm has passed us by
And Finnigan has awakened;
So here comes everyone again,
Time’s relatives aren’t mistaken.
A funeral is a costly mess
When Whiskers is the victim;
Consider that a paper bull
And not a campaign dictum.
I‘ve looked again at the scruffy pine,
Trying to see what’s hidden;
The universe is playing tricks,
Just doing what it’s bidden.
A scruffy tree can be a sign,
Or an entrance into Heaven.
It just depends who bakes the bread
And who supplies the leaven.
