Hello Mr. Owl.
The weather's turning foul.
Have you seen my rain coat?
The hood is like my brain coat.

Have you seen my shoes?
And have you heard the news?
A badger stole my lunch box.
That's why I've made these punch socks.

They act just like a punch bag.
One will be my lunch bag.
You have to punch them hard
And exhibit scant regard

For the safety of your body.
These actions say to God he
Has made a great mistake
Or else he's not awake.

You may well look insane
When you're standing in the rain,
Furiously swinging
And consequently bringing

People out to see you,
But the process may well free you
From your grudge against the Lord.
You pulled the golden cord

That's supposed to ring a bell
Up in heaven, not in hell,
And get the Lord's attention,
Allowing you to mention

One or two complaints
About the way fate taints
Life with all-out farce
When you end up on your arse.

Sometimes you can laugh.
You can make your mental staff
Build up strong defences
When the inner person winces.

You can laugh off most defeats
When you haven't learnt life's cheats.
Most humiliations
That are caused by God's creations

Are easily ignored
But some will leave you floored,
When they hit you by surprise,
Right between your eyes.

Your defences are too weak
And the aftermath is bleak.
And God won't do a thing.
Does the golden cord bell ring?

So in the rain you stand an'
You punch with wild abandon,
And tears roll down your face
But they fail to leave a trace.

They blend in with the rain fall.
Let a single punch sock enthral.
And let out all your feeling
Underneath a stormy ceiling.

It'll make you feel much better.
Have you seen my sweater?
I thought I had it on
But it seems as if it's gone.

I probably should explain
That I'm standing in the rain,
Near an old oak tree
Where I'm living nearly rent-free.

I share it with an owl.
We also share a towel.
He reads O'Brien and Joyce
While eating flame-grilled mice.

He watches DVDs,
Like documentaries
About the lives of birds.
He uses Latin words,

And he talks above my head,
But when I go to bed
He talks about Camus
In the style of Nancy Drew,

And the sound puts me to sleep.
I'm done with counting sheep.
At times his late-night hooting
And the sound of hunters shooting

Can influence my dreams,
Triggering midnight screams.
At times he drives me mad
But all in all I'm glad

That we're sharing this oak tree.
Only I require a key.
He enters through the top
When he comes back from the shop.