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I’m walking backwards up a hill.
A light turns red; I go
into the ocean with some cats.
There’s one that I don’t know.

He says, “Your clothes don’t even match.
Your shirt is inside out!”
I say, “That’s quite an eye you’ve got”
and feed him to a trout.

The trout, all stuffed and happy, 
does a little dance.
I join in until the cats
decide to steal my pants.

I change into a wedding gown
and waltz into a war;
the soldiers take a coffee break,
and then it starts to pour.

I run for cover underneath
the top of Eiffel Tower.
A soldier from Iraq appears
and in his hand, a flower.

I bend to kiss the violet rose
when swarms of butterflies
come buzzing by with wings like nets
and chasing little guys.

Regis Philbin peeks at me
and shyly starts to coo,
“Forget the million.  Guess who’s got
a secret crush on you?”

When Richard Simmons trudges in,
I know I’ve got to gripe,
“This must be another’s dream.
That woman’s not my type!”

An oldie for the 'May The Gas Be With You Farts Part 2' Poetry Contest
of Chantelle Anne Cooke

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