Friday, June 24, 2011

The Eye of the Beholder

asks to ponder about the feelings of inanimate objects.


"I've always been proud of my eyes;
Everyone has declared them perfections,
Although even I have to say
That they're pointing in different directions.
A potato with eyes has some class;
It's considered quite charming by others;
Vegetables smooth and un-eyed
Are only adored by their mothers.
But, today, I heard something obscene;
Something almost beyond comprehension.
I've not felt the  same ever since;
I've been living with foul apprehension.
They tell me my eyes will be gouged!
They'll be dug out by cook in a hurry.
They'll be thrown in the sink with my peel!
Don't tell me that isn't a worry!
Now I lie in the tray in the shop
And I hope no-one ever takes to me,
And carries me home for his tea.
The thought of it's going to undo me!
My eyes! Once thought soulful and bright!
To be gouged in a manner quite heedless!
Anyone who attacks me this way
Deserves to go hungry and feedless!"



In a dusty case in a small museum these clothes pegs were on show.
Lit from above with a little lamp so the whole scene seemed to glow.
They were displayed as artifacts over time collected.
Cast aside, no doubt, back then, though now they were resurrected.
And it struck me that this was their stage, with the footlights at their feet.
With the little blue ballerinas looking rather sweet
As they dipped and bowed and circled in time to a melody
With all their little tutus flaring so prettily.
While beside them marched the soldiers, with their military might,
And all their colourful uniforms looking crisp and bright.
Their shadows, too, looked theatrical, as they echoed the dancers' legs!
I found myself almost believing they were more than humdrum pegs!

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