I wrote this for someone else, but I figured I might was well post it here.
Four rhymes with eight,
Five rhymes with two,
Seven with nineteen,
and one rhymes with you.
For you are one person,
in an ocean of ham,
surrounded by giants,
who really like lamb.
If you didn’t grasp it,
that’s entirely okay,
but you’re an infantile ovine
in the pork-filled bay.
Things, as they are,
are looking rather bleak:
not being found
are the exits you seek.
How’er hope springs eternal,
and you persevere,
less out of the ‘foresaid,
than just out of fear.
Suddenly, rapidly, light from above,
and the cosine of zero descends (like a dove).
This being one, and that being you,
I can’t blame you for being confu-
-sed (that may have been cheating),
but your double saves you from an eating.
With doppelganger-ish magic abounding,
you think only of your reprieve from a pounding.
In retrospect, that may have been dumb,
for your erstwhile twin had removed twice your thumb.
With said digits he had absconded,
leaving you to a stalactite bonded.
While pleasanter than your previous plight,
you must admit, despite your small flight,
there remained one minor problem
the ravenous giants were about to gobble ’em.
(I know, I know, that was kind of a stretch,
but doesn’t my meter already make you retch?)
Deciding forthwith to sever your losses,
you left the pit to avoid the pit bosses.
Or, at least, this was done in your head,
in reality, future you looked quite dead.
Your plasma splattered out, and the rocks blood-red,
and your body quite failing, or so you had read.
But since I’m not Edgar Allen Poe,
this story has a happy ending, you know.
And instead of you back together to sew,
the unfriendly giants were laid out as so.
Some rescuers came, and they did not tarry,
except when they took the Number Five ferry.
With the aid of Gandalf, Batman, and Queen Mary,
you were unglued, made off, and made off, and made merry.
This now is why, though little you care,
sheep have no thumbs, and so do not dare,
to stand upon mountains, and thus be there,
because no number five phalange is said to be their(s).
There’s a good reason the rhymes get stranger in the last four stanzas. Look at them carefully.
Hobbes 