Whenever she feels it's a strain to stay standing
Andrea will dream of escape.
Coping with eight screaming kids is demanding,
More tiring than keeping an ape.

In dreamland ice creams don't mean trips to the cleaners,
A world free of crimes against homes,
Where lists of her miscreant kids' misdemeanours
Do not fill up numerous tomes,

Where good-humoured people have long conversations
In warm rooms with wood-burning stoves.
Floorboards are free of unsafe perforations
Where kids thought they'd find treasure troves.

Sleep isn't broken by junior ghost-busters
Applying their foul-smelling potion.
Dark eerie attics will never host clusters
Of kids on the verge of commotion.

Chefs who toast custard will clean up the mess.
Meal-times are conflict-free zones.
She isn't repeatedly asked to address
Requests for extravagant loans.

In dreamland she's no trouble falling asleep,
And dreams are not raided by dread,
And scenes of her home's rubble all in a heap,
While wrecking balls wait to be fed.

The lawns are much greener and winters are warmer
In dreamland where she'd like to linger.
But sadly reality calls to inform her
There's something attached to Mike's finger.

Mike's always putting his hands into places
Where insects or animals dwell.
He's a detective who only takes cases
That start with an unpleasant smell.

The twins always look like they're plotting and planning.
Andrea tries reading their minds.
She feels like she's been doing nothing but banning
Explosives and traps of all kinds.

They'd just reached the end of another school week,
And brought more dismay to their mother.
Amy and Alice displayed a cruel streak
When they played a trick on their brother.

They told Will a monster was secretly sleeping
Beneath all the junk in their shed.
He'd wake after dark and go stealthily creeping.
You'd still hear the clunk of his head.

His bucket-shaped head couldn't help make a racket
Because of loose parts made of metal.
His eye balls leaked oil that left stains on his jacket.
When angered he boiled like a kettle.

Will was afraid of the shed's latest menace,
This monster in search of food hampers,
A creature who'd eat your pet hamster called Dennis.
He hoped it would rather eat campers.

Will had to act to protect his small pet.
Attack was his form of defence.
Armed to the teeth he'd defeat this tall threat,
And make the bad monster past tense.

He entered the shed well before darkness fell,
And quietly took out the things
That would be good weapons. William could tell
What could become arrows or slings.

He took out the shovels, the pitchforks and spades,
The petrol can, hammers and rakes,
The shears and its gardening friends that had blades,
The ropes and the short timber stakes.

He made his own monster with various tools.
A pitchfork made up its right arm.
This furious thing would defeat any fools
In search of a new brand of harm.

He used a paint tin for the head of his creature.
He painted fierce eyes that were glaring.
He called it 'Miss Carter', after his teacher.
They shared facial features and bearing.

Will thought the monster would fear these proud eyes,
But after the dark had set in,
His creature fell over and made a loud noise.
Miss Carter would not stand again.

He felt sure the noise must have woken his foe.
The monster would be full of ire.
He panicked in dread of his imminent woe.
That's why he set their shed on fire.

Andrea has thought about buying a pet,
A present for Christmas this year.
Maybe an ape who would issue a threat,
Ensuring serene Christmas cheer.

She knows she's just dreaming. They'll show her they care.
Her anger will soon fade away.
They'll do something charming, disarming her glare.
They won't be alarming all day.

Her kids make her smile with their spirited wave,
And they'll entertain her, not rile her.
She'll cave in and get them the puppy they crave,
Maybe a friendly Rottweiler.

When Norman hears a mouse inside
  His house he'll scream incessantly.
As soon as he's identified
  The source of his distress he'll flee.

He'll wake up all the neighbours
  And he'll run in circles on the lawn.
He'll stay outside, despite the cold,
  Until he sees the light of dawn.

Historically, hysterics have
  Been common in his family.
Uncle Peter was a priest.
  In homilies he'd damn a tree

That failed to make a feast of fruit
  Or sticks to beat the beast to hell
(Chased away, insisting he's
  Not hurt or in the least unwell).

He'd cook a flea or butterfly
  Who'd dearly love to book a flight.
You'd hear him mutter gratitude
  To God each time he took a bite

From sandwiches with slices of
  The butterfly or flea he'd cooked,
Blissfully oblivious to
  How bizarre he must have looked.

Many aunts and uncles have
  Exhibited a seasoned craze,
But Norman says the source of his
  Great fear lies in his childhood days.

His nanny always looked as if
  She had a little lamb to slay.
When he was only ten months old
  She took his much-loved pram away.

His tenure as an infant ended
  Instantly and he was left
To find his food and dine alone
  And then defend his room from theft.

He found that independent life
  And fending for himself was hard.
His solo expedition to
  The kitchen door was often marred

By fights with teddy bears on flights
  Of stairs and fast-inflating fears
When teddies made their threats to start
  A fire when they were wet with tears.

Baddies were defeated and
  The foes disguised as potted plants
Waited patiently to pounce
  But failed to halt his slow advance.

The cat who blocked the kitchen door
  Was kind enough to let him in.
She purred a lot of words about
  Returning to the vet again,

And how her friend's cavorting with
  An alley-cat who will be at
The park to fight a tabby in
  A tiny, tattered Trilby hat.

Norman listened as the cat
  Communicated her complaint
About the constant rain and staying
  In because of its constraint.

When he got away from her
  He crawled in through the kitchen door.
The cupboards high above his head
  Enthralled him as he crossed the floor.

The dog was there to lift him on
  A chair from where he reached the fridge.
His caring canine butler re-arranged
  The stools to make a bridge

That took him to the cooker and
  The cupboards for the pans and pots.
The butler got the cutlery
  And battled underhand robots

Who cut the tops off tins and cans
  That bled red beans and garden peas.
He signed a new peace treaty with
  The cat and chose to pardon fleas,

A truce that would allow the dog
  To concentrate on making sure
His miniature commander would
  Remain contented and secure.

Cutting coriander brought
  A risk that he would come to grief.
He could have suffered injuries
  While tenderising sirloin beef.

He managed to avoid a single
  Injury and he enjoyed
The meal he'd made. His garlic sauce
  Became a source of special pride.

His chocolate mousse dessert would not
  Disgrace a chef who strives for fame.
Norman would remain unknown.
  He couldn't even say his name.

He made a pot of tea for two
  And put a nice array of cheese
On china plates, with chocolate treats
  And crackers too, a tray of these.

The dog admired his master's traits
  When Norman asked him to sit down
Without commanding 'sit!' and then
  Responding only with a frown

If he played dead instead or stayed there
  Standing with a stupid grin.
The dog ate all the crackers and
  He put the crumbs into the bin.

A mouse believed the cheese was much
  More appetising than the mousse.
His journey to retrieve a piece
  Would terminate the pleasant truce.

Before he reached the table he
  Was spotted by the clever cat,
Who saw right through the sheep disguise
  And straightaway she smelled a rat.

She chased the mouse around the floor.
  The dog joined in to make them stop.
The mouse led his pursuers over
  Chairs and 'cross the table top.

Norman watched in horror as the
  Dinner plates were smashed to bits,
A loud symphonic medley of the
  Crockery's new Greatest Hits,

And into this cacophony came
  Noises of the pots and pans,
Falling to the floor where they formed
  Piles with flour and fruit and cans,

And all the other food knocked down
  With knives and forks and jars of jam.
Milk and honey mingled with
  The broken eggs and damaged ham.

A monumental mess was made.
  The mouse did not receive the blame.
Norman was accused of it.
  He tried his best to clear his name,

But no one understood him even
  Though the dog gave his support
For Norman's version of events
  In their informal kitchen court.

His parents didn't trust him
  In the kitchen till he turned eighteen.
And even then they only let him
  Heat a solitary bean.

This trauma is the source of his
  Aversion to the mice he hears.
He can't explain why ice cream cones
  Should trigger overwhelming fears.

I like to spend free time with friends,
Like Hilda, Liz and Seamus.
We'll waste the days on long weekends
When Liz pretends she's famous.

She won't say no to photographs,
Signs autographs for children.
Her charity for slow giraffes
Supports her state of chilled Zen.

So she says in interviews
With make-believe reporters.
When old giraffes are sent to zoos
The judge in her cat court purrs.

She gets respect in trendy clubs
And restaurants where waiters
Would part a tiger from her cubs
And threaten alligators.

Seamus drinks and eats a lot.
He seems to take great pleasure
From cream-filled cakes. He greets a pot
Of stew as if it's treasure.

Of all the local restaurants
His favourite's in the castle,
Where Jack the ghostly jester haunts
And always causes hassle.

People leave when he performs
His jokes from times gone by,
When all these dining rooms were dorms
For men condemned to die.

The scarcity of customers
Means Seamus rarely waits.
He'll eat non-stop and trust a nurse
To help when he eats plates.

Before he sleeps he'd love a bit
Of beef washed down with stout.
In dreams he's seen Liz shovel it
Into his open mouth.

On some weekends we'll go for walks
On trails through vales and hills.
In woodland Hilda's nature talks
Provide delightful thrills.

While feeling overwhelming joys
From sounds the birds and bees make
And Hilda's words, we'd hear the noise
Of Seamus eating cheesecake.

We told him he was gluttonous,
That groans came from his ground.
We had his front door shut on us
The next time we called round.

He wouldn't speak to us for weeks.
We missed the jokes he told,
The lies about his friend who seeks
An Eskimo's lost gold.

He'd entertain us with his dance
When winter rain confined us
To a house. We loved his rants
Against past lives behind us.

Without us there to hear him talk
He'd much more time to eat.
There was no dance or nature walk
To activate his feet.

He put on weight. We had to act,
To eat some humble pie,
And stop him when he felt he lacked
An apple crumble high.

We made a massive chocolate cake,
So big it's marked on maps.
It made some folk feel shock and shake
In fear of its collapse.

'Sorry Seamus' were the words
We chose to write in icing.
Seamus cut the cake in thirds
With virtuoso slicing.

By giving us a slice he said
We'd solved our friendship's crisis.
His bites seemed bigger than his head
As he devoured his slices.

When he's with us he can't consume
Each frightened piece of food.
His dancing feet fight winter gloom
And leave a summer mood.

Sometimes when perusing the files in my mind
  I'll find some obscure memories.
Once I remembered my mission to make
  A fortune from my slimmer bees.

I put the bees through a tough training regime.
  My A-Team-like bee team could beat
The bees from the hives where indiscipline thrived,
  Where honey would taste of defeat.

People could easily tell from the noise
  That my recruits were the bee's knees.
Others were toes. Their buzzing was prose.
  Mine filled the warm summer breeze

With poetic buzzes in old red brick gardens
  Where slow-headed people will pause
To listen to verse that's composed with a grasp
  Of nature's strict metrical laws.

The bees in my hives were as busy as beavers.
  They were high achievers who glowed.
They thought of MacGyver as their ideal leader.
  I've seen webs of spiders explode.

I hoped to make money from their golden honey
  That had the sweet taste of success.
But people reacted as if I was selling
  Glass jars that contained a duck's mess.

Before I discovered these memories of
  My doomed-to-bust bee industry,
I wasn't aware I had done such a thing.
  My mind tells me that it must be.

Unlocking these memories leaves me in shock.
  I gasped at my bee escapade.
Once I discovered that I once invented
  A scissors with one extra blade.

The files that I find in my mind help explain
  My feelings for hot air balloons.
I raced a balloon against people allowed
  To bring guns but not their harpoons.

Some former whale-hunters took part in these races
  To chase the great whales of the sky.
These vast levitating leviathans left
  From Munich one day in July.

Thousands of people turned out at the start
  To see us depart and wave flags.
Some of my rivals brought kitchen utensils
  In countless suitcases and bags.

One of them brought his piano, his oboe,
  His double bass and his bassoon.
He'd be near the end of his list of supplies
  If he'd started reading last June.

The basket that hung from his massive balloon
  Had fireplaces for freezing weather.
The four spacious rooms had impressive oak chairs
  Upholstered with soft maroon leather.

My only luggage was one huge red bag,
  And this contained nothing but air.
Discontent reigned in the minds of my rivals.
  I sensed it from my airborne lair.

Lacking their weight I went straight to the front.
  Our two-month-long race seemed decided.
Newspaper hype helped inflate my repute.
  My rivals were harshly derided.

In my head the yearning to fly in the sky
  Was not to defy God's directives.
I loved seeing awe on the faces below.
  I felt the warm glow that respect gives.

But as I flew over a snow-covered peak
  I feared God's contempt for my flight.
I'd dreamt I would die on a diet of wine.
  My future did not seem this bright.

It wasn't a heavenly hand from above,
  But many strong men down below.
Through aerial fishing they landed a whale
  And dealt my grand race plan a blow.

Their hook hit my basket and they pulled me down.
  Their task was to intercept me.
My rivals had hired them. They didn't believe
  That airborne whales must be kept free.

They led me away down a steep mountain slope.
  I made my escape with a leap.
My soft landing left me with hope that I'd meet
  The nice death I'd seen in my sleep.

I followed a path that led into a forest.
  Those fishermen followed me in.
I told God I'd certainly settle for death
  With dark chocolate gateau and gin.

Before I'd gone far I encountered a woman
  Who dragged me away from the path.
At first I thought this must be God's final offer.
  I wasn't disgruntled with that.

But she had a great hiding place in a hollow.
  We heard my pursuers run past.
The sound of their footsteps soon faded away.
  For once I was glad they were fast.

Her name was Brunhilda. I owed her my life,
  And maybe a dark chocolate death.
I sensed that a Black Forest gateau was looming.
  We hadn't escaped the woods yet.

Hunger and cold were still threatening life,
  But she had a knife and a match.
Brunhilda soon killed a wild boar and she lit
  A fire for cooking her catch.

We spent that cold night in a desolate clearing,
  Warmed by the heat from the flames.
At dawn we set out to retrieve my balloon.
  Millions would soon know our names.

The crowds were ecstatic when we won the race.
  We went to great banquets with princes.
We received accolades, honours and plaudits.
  I learnt what her mischievous grin says.

She needed adventure. She easily found it.
  We faced an array of grave dangers.
Ghostly grave-diggers worked hard to confine us
  In tombs with mysterious strangers.

In doom-laden rooms near an old fog-bound wharf
  There loomed a most serious threat.
We fought off ten henchmen and fled on a boat
  Without getting injured or wet.

For years I did not have the slightest idea
  That these events had taken place.
I still can't remember remembering them
  Before I remembered the race.

Sometimes I wonder did I really race
  A hot air balloon at high speed.
But it would explain the 'Brunhilda' tattoo
  That I need a mirror to read.

Dan gladly spends his free time helping friends.
  He rightly takes pride in his labours.
He's always performing good deeds, such as warming
  The houses of elderly neighbours.

He lights homely fires and fights flames on tyres,
  And tries to end warming that's global.
He plants many trees after trips overseas.
  His aim to build wind farms is noble.

He cycles, recycles, lets nephews be rivals
  To see who'd do most to decrease
Their carbon footprints. Their father put tents
  Outside where they wage war in peace.

They're growing potatoes and learning to hate crows
  Who pose as respectable chaps.
Their power is solar to save all things polar,
  From poor little bears to ice caps.

Dan's stocks of spinach are often replenished.
  His green fuel is crucial for saving
The lives of bad swimmers or masterly slimmers
  Who've learnt to resist every craving.

Their sub-zero sizes leave them in disguises
  As cardboard cut-outs of themselves.
He earnestly preaches on spinach and peaches
  Till they crack and empty his shelves.

He feels ten times bigger when filled with the vigour
  He gets from the spinach he eats.
He'll do any deed if it helps those in need.
  He frustrates the progress of cheats.

His trousers got wet but he be-devilled Death
  When he rescued Sue from the river.
When her breath was bated he knew she awaited
  The warm kiss of life he could give her.

With no need to share his recycled air
  Their first kiss was slightly delayed
Till later that night as a waiter in white
  Was counting the money he'd made.

After their dinner the strong feelings in her
  Came out in a rapturous song
That captured the mood. Bright stars had been screwed
  In skies where they feel they belong.

Everything seemed as if it had been dreamed
  By someone who's prone to romance.
His gift of a rose might nauseate those
  Who waste student loans and blow grants

On imprudent ways to induce a nice haze
  And make them feel nauseous and blue.
The rose-hued romance and impromptu slow dance
  Were much better suited to Sue.

Ronan was raging and planning on waging
  A war to defeat his new foe.
He'd win back Sue's love by distressing the dove
  Who longs to see harmony grow.

He shattered the peace and he scattered wild geese
  With his battle cry to foretell
His forceful assault. It came to a halt
  When he paused to ring Dan's doorbell.

Their battle began. Ronan and Dan
  Fought bravely in graveyards and playgrounds.
They fought for a week on a snow-covered peak
  Till they became thinner than greyhounds.

With neither the winner they paused for their dinner.
  The spinach worked wonders for Dan.
When fighting resumed, an ending soon loomed.
  Ronan surrendered and ran.

Sue was delighted and Dan was invited
  To lunch with his number-one fan.
She sings frequently and she keeps weekends free
  To see the great deeds done by Dan.