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At night, when humans are asleep,
    And curtains are closed tight,
The bookworm creeps along the shelf
     And eats alone at night.

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He scours the leaves of poetry books
     For things he really likes.
He licks his lips at what he finds
     And then he starts to strike.

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He munches sonnets by the score.
     He chomps iambic feet.
As for children’s nursery rhymes,
     He finds that they’re too sweet.

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Minibeasts?  Mmmm just the thing,
     But hippos?  Much too big!
There was the time he found a poem
     And then he ate the pig.

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He thought about the pig a lot
     Before he did the deed,
Then grabbed it squealing from the page,
     Such was his bookworm greed.

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He munches poems of fairyland,
     Loves dragons which breathe fire
And ghastly monsters, dinosaurs -
     All meet with his desire.

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One character he hasn’t caught -
    The one he cannot see;
The one who is invisible –
    Our good friend Mickledy-Me!

                                           Shhhhhhh!

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Copyright on all my poems 

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Who is Mickledy-Me?  Mickledy-Me

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The children would murder me if I let the bookworm eat their favourite character.  A bookworm?  Oh, someone who loves to read books (devours them in fact).  Josie 

 

 

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