The Lips of Bill McCavity
The lips of Bill McCavity,
are fat and wobbly red.
They bounce around upon his face,
obscuring most his head.
His baked bean eyes strain hard to see,
beyond his monster pout,
as slobber splats upon his face,
and dribbles from his snout.
He paddles to his bed to sleep,
climbs in his soggy pit.
Then in they sneak the slimy beasts,
to find his pools of spit.
His lips like magnets mesmerise
advancing snails and frogs,
that squirm beneath his bedroom door,
towards his mouthy bog.
Bill’s gobby bubbles land like leaves.
The beasties climb inside,
and fly their bauble air-cars high,
and giggle as they ride.
Then when the bubbles float to be,
above Bill’s snoring gape -
they scream with glee, exploding them,
to dive into his lake.
On Bill's raw lips, snails trampoline.
The frogs swim round his teeth.
The best fun they have ever had,
ʻtill Bill begins to wheeze.
His tonsils wrap the frogs webbed feet,
and trap them in his throat.
The bouncing snails become alarmed,
as Bill begins to choke.
Then up he splutters with a leap,
he burps a slimy smell.
Feels stinking lumps upon his tongue,
and spits out bits of shell.
He swallows hard, relieved to feel,
the salty bumps dislodge,
and snake-feed to his rumbling tum,
and bloat his croaking podge.
He wades into the kitchen ill.
His belly boils and stews.
The same each morning without fail -
intestines block and bruise.
Head in his hands, he sits confused,
lips, throat and stomach puffed,
and wonders why at breakfast time,
he always feels so stuffed.
©2009 Mark Bird