Crusty Eyes

Three, zero, zero on the clock
and nothing stirring except me
(and whatever monster lurks within
the closed up closet that I see)

Through crusty eyes I try to look
for a rational explanation
for the wicked noise that's left me
filled with dreaded hesitation

"Who's there?" I squeak into the dark
and hear a muffled slither
"I'm on the phone. I've called the cops"
and pick up the mute receiver

It's then the closet door bangs wide
and out jumps claws and horror
The devil-eyes of my daughter's cat
looks through my fear and terror

"Daddy, don't scare Mr Fluffy!
He needs his mumsie-wumsie"
Louise collects the smug assailant
and leaves me feeling clumsy

I stumble round at six am
and know I've had no rest
I open up the closet doors
and search for a clean vest

It's then my fingers stop to grasp
a moist, soft, four inch present...
By eight am I've sold the cat
and smell of mild detergent

Louise was not that sad at all,
nor missing Mr Fluffy
(at four am he had found her shoes
and left them really scruffy)


(32 lines, 191wds)