The moon is on the leaves
through my window pane,
gives them a wetlike sheen
though ended long the rain,
and by a cold wind dried
the leaves there outside.
The moon is on the leaves,
it casts a lovely glow.
Not quite a Christmas tree,
the tree stands on shiny-show.
Autumnal tree. Tree all the same,
shedding leaves with a wintry-pain?
They've caught the stalk-eyed stalker,
he the sideways crab-crawling cancer.
He edged his way into a hedge. No escaper.
The tide, on him, became a turner.
Yes time now for a prison cell
that we shall call his crab-shell?
Poor Richard Head,
why'd he stay in bed?
Friends called him Dick,
enemies took the mick.
But girls got to grips with the name,
find their talking point he became.
No he's sure not alone in bed !