Monday 25 January 2016

An Ode To Parsley

A lone bun sits up on high,
Nose to the wind to smell,
Long has the moon gone to die,
Back to forgotten times to dwell.
In warming rays across the land,
A sight soon to behold,
Of ragged leaves clutched in hand,
Legendary taste that was foretold.

Ears poised and moving fast,
For the signs of the approaching meal,
Joyful hunger for noms unsurpassed,
The constant squeak of barrow wheel.
She shall wait upon her perch,
For time shall come to all,
A fruitful end will be to her search,
A hooman comes, standing tall.

Is it here? Can it be?
She stretches to her height,
Her eyes gaze in hope to see,
The best of all the sights.
The stranger comes, the bun sighs,
It’s time for breakfast at 10!

Oh no, I tell a lie,
It’s that smelly woman again.


  1. Oooo.. Such beauty, such grace, such talent, the wit of a thousand pens is matched by her disapproval that could power a thousand suns.

  2. Miss Lola Bun sympathizes with poor Soleil, for she has known the woes of dealing with incompetent humans who have no regard for a rabbit's meal schedule.