Katie bought a farm
To escape from city life.
Months of rural charm
Have erased all urban strife.

She's satisfied her hunger
For a sense of inner peace.
She feels she's getting younger.
She is looking like her niece.

The farm's abundant chores
Give an unexpected high.
She longs to be outdoors
With a vast expanse of sky,

Escaping from her cage,
As soon as morning fog clears.
When she tells friends her age
They say, "Is that in dog years?"

She thinks that this refers
To her fresh-faced, youthful guise.
She says the fresh air blurs
All the lines around her eyes.

But I think that they say it
Coz she always wags her tail.
She'll gladly spend a day with
Sheep and wild flowers in the vale.

Last night I went to visit her
But she was not at home.
I met a good inquisitor
In Katie's garden gnome.

His red eyes asked me why
I had visited this place.
Great liars couldn't lie
When confronted by his face.

I turned the other way.
I decided I should wait.
Night engulfed the day
As I stood outside the gate.

I counted Katie's chickens
And then they counted me.
I'm equal to Charles Dickens,
At least in quantity.

I'm no less than Obama.
We both amount to one,
As does the Dalai Lama
And the man who weighs a tonne.

I count myself twice daily.
Many times I find
That my memory can fail me
And the number slips my mind.

I'm good enough for Katie.
She won't want more than one.
The expert groups who rate me
Say I'm twice as good as none.

I'm twice as good as Bertie.
She told me she can tell
That his aura is unearthly,
But I think that's the smell.

His strict organic farming
Has been frequently discussed.
Women find him charming.
Men have been nonplussed.

I don't know what they see,
Or more likely what they smell,
But there's so much more in me
And I own a car as well.

The foremost days of my life should
Arrive in my mid-thirties.
I believe I'm just as good
As forty-seven Berties.

This is what I told myself
To pass the time while waiting.
I'm a bargain on the shelf,
An entertaining play thing.

She looked glad to see me
When she came back home that night.
If Scottie tried to beam me
I'd resist with all my might.

Wild horses couldn't drag me
From this place, or not that far.
Ten grannies couldn't nag me
Into cleaning out my car.

I asked her if she'd like to
Spend an hour or two with me.
We'd walk or take a bike to
See the cats defend their tree.

Or go to play some bingo
In the local village hall.
The caller learnt the lingo
From an Eskimo called Paul.

He sings the bingo numbers
In a powerful tenor voice
While his Jack Russell slumbers
In the midst of dancing mice.

Katie didn't take long
To decide she'd like to hear
The bingo caller's love song
To the numbers he holds dear.

I felt like I'd been multiplied
By seventy-nine or eighty.
I felt such joy I could have cried
And this applied to Katie.