The Thing by the river was rare indeed,
And if you took to look in a book you’d concede,
He was certainly one of a kind.
Indisputibly a cryptozoologists great find,
However, for the thing by the river it was simply day No.1,
A chance to have some kicks in the snow and the sun.
Trouble was, with the washing and cleaning,
Getting cobwebs off the ceiling,
Vacuuming the hall,
It left no time at all,
In the sun.
And the state of the loo?
Left for Day No.2.
After The Archers, the thing made a plan.
Call Dan, get eggs, make flan.
Or maybe a quiche?
For savoury was the things niche.
But it’d be early to bed for the thing.
(Fingers crossed his mother won’t ring)
And then in the morning of day No.2,
Down to the park, with the teens, sniffing glue.
As day No.1 became day No.2,
Thing stayed up reading The Turn of the Screw.
Classical horror and riverside sounds;
Cracking of twigs and Victorian nouns.
A constant need to go to the loo,
The incessant cry of an owl’s twit t’woo -
Combined to grind Thing’s nerves to rind.
As the novel’s subtext played on his mind,
It was 5am before Thing closed his eyes,
Worried he was that the Governess dies.
As for cleaning the loo,
And the sniffing of glue,
“Tasks left”, he thought, “For day No.3”.
He slept straight through,
He missed the big party,
Organised by Marty.
He missed the book reading,
On whelping/ dog breeding.
The discussion on Freud,
He would have enjoyed.
The session on rust?
He’d not have been fussed.
But the real shame?
The game of name the dame,
Won by Zelda with ‘Imelda’.
(The thing would have suggested ‘Esmerelda’).
Day No.2 went by without the Thing,
He wondered what day No.3 would bring.
On day No.3, he awoke feeling yuck.
Crushed with ennui, he cursed his bad luck.
His fur was a mess, and it had a bad pong,
“Today I will dress, I’ve been sleeping too long”
He said, then decided, “It’s time for a treat!”
Thing as always was guided by his tooth which was sweet.
He made tiramisu;
It tasted like poo.
So, he went back to bed,
Despite his sore head.
“No! Things have to change!” he said as he lay wide-awake,
“For this life is quite strange, and I’m starting to ache,
From my obvious proclivity for not doing much,
And a lack of activity in leaving my hutch.
I’ll need positive thinking, If I’m ever to explore,
Good places for drinking, during day No. 4.”
On Day No.4 he was up with the lark,
What would he do, would he go to the park?
Would he invent a new sport and set the benchmark?
Would he buy a rare map and on a journey embark?
Would he raid a warehouse and find the lost Ark?
Would he audition for Jaws in the role of the shark?
No. It was pissing it down.
So The Thing sat with a frown.
It rained and it rained, and the river swelled,
And by and by a wood creature yelled,
From a log racing past,
“Someone at last!,
“Mr Thing, throw me a line”
Thing did nothing, “You swine!”,
Cried creature, “I’m going to drown,
Yet, you act like a clown,
Why are you refraining?”
Said Thing, “’Cause it’s raining”
Creature said “Oh my,
“I suppose then I’ll die”.
He sat and he wept,
And away he was swept.
Day No.5 he would get some stuff done,
The previous four days had been a bad run.
No martyr to fashion, Thing decided to write,
A poem of love (not a catalogue of spite),
Inspired it would be by Coleridge, Poe and McGough.
The visceral beauty of the Wampas of Hoth,
He decreed it would be of such delicate prose,
That the reader would quiver from her head to her toes.
The first lines had come quickly,
(Although they were sickly).
Comparing he had,
Her breasts to his dad.
And the glaze on her shin,
To a molester’s broad grin,
But after six hours he eventually got stuck.
Which he immediately put down to his continual bad luck.
Try as he might, he could find nothing to rhyme,
With, ‘Your eyes are all bloodshot and your ears smell of a grime’
Or ‘Given half a chance, your posterior I’d cup’
By teatime that day, he thought he’d give up.
Day No.6. Noon.
We return to The Thing in a self-imposed gloom.
He had spent the evening before drinking with Ted.
When eventually he’d awoken he wished he was dead.
His head pounds, he has the shakes,
He needs a big poo before pal Ted awakes.
But, where now was Ted? Who knows? He went out to get curry,
Thing shouted, “Hurry,
They’ll be shut in an hour,
Ted turned with a scourer,
“I can’t see a bloody thing out here!”
(Little did he know a fox was quite near).
Ted never came back,
Which Thing thought was slack,
As he’d given him the dosh,
To get takeaway nosh.
He’d ended up eating scraps.
Peace Lilly wraps, washed down with peach schnapps,
And the last of tiramisu,
Which, although poo, would do,
In Thing’s boozy hazy craze,
To drink and grave.
Suddenly, the phone rings, which gives Thing a scare,
Thing ignores it. Who it is, he just does not care,
Although later, with caller ID
He can see it was Lee
(With an offer of tea?)
“Hmm,” Thought Thing, “Lee’s a bore, but at least tea will be free”.
Thing is now ready to face the world outside his door.
First a check of switches, y’know, just to make sure…
There was this routine Thing had,
To which each day he would add,
Another item to check off,
(Yeah, yeah, I know you may scoff).
From which he could never deviate,
So he started in the cellar and worked up to the attic,
Some days the process was easy, some days it was traumatic.
Today it was bad. He kept getting the order wrong,
Yet still his compulsion was horrifically strong.
Light switch by chaise longue,
Socket behind King Kong.
Hob knobs 1,2,3 and 4.
All knives put away (straight) in the kitchen draw?
No no, knives before hob, back to the start,
He’ll have a quick look on the procedural chart.
Back door locked, bolted, latched and chained?
Hour after hour Thing soon felt quite drained.
Not that Thing would step outside today,
Oh no, the OCD will certainly make him pay.
The question is, will Thing ever leave his hole?
Yes. ‘cause today is the day he signs on for the dole.
His appointment with the advisor is scheduled for 10,
Thing wakes up when?
What can you say?
“GET UP THING! GET DRESSED! GET YOUR ARSE INTO GEAR,
You’ve skived off work for almost a year!”
But Thing thinks “I’ve enough on my plate’
What with this thing that ate my mate”
And whilst pondering the fate of pal Ted, now dead.
Decides that today, not tomorrow is the day to do what he said,
And venture out.
So he makes some nice sarnies (hot lizard bap).
A bottle of drink (fresh weasel sap).
Pulls on his boots; big coat, scarf and hat.
And steps outside; just like that.