I hear no voices crying “More!”
There are no mail sacks at my door,
No-one awaits the formulation
Of my fourth Z-bed variation.
Three nonsense pomes were quite enough,
There’s no more mileage in such stuff.
The epigram was short sweet verse,
The sonnet-thing was rather worse,
And dactyls which alluded to
KosOvan politics won’t do!
However, as most readers know,
I’m rather daft. So here I go.

It struck me then, and strikes me now
As quite mysterious, just how
The bed was got up there at all -
The hatchway is a foot too small!
We tried it straight, then upside-down
Then inside out, then turned it round
And folded up then held out straight
We held a family debate
On how to best of all despatch
This antique object through the hatch.
To no avail. We let things be
And went downstairs to have some tea.
In fact, when all is said and done
The afternoon was rather fun.

Iambic four-feet poems require
A moral ending to inspire,
To point to meaning in the normal;
Lift the petty to the formal.
And so, forgetting this damned bed
I offer you these words instead:
If it don’t fit, then it don’t fit
No matter how you work at it.
So give it up, and seize the day:
Turn your back, and walk away.