My Uncle is a loner,
an unusual man who’s
built himself a cloner
That he’s promised not to use.
When he first turned it on
it produced a shorter, hairy clone.
He turned it off, turned it on and thereupon
the first was not alone.
That was why my Uncle agreed
to stop cloning in Weston-Super-Mare.
So on visiting was I surprised indeed
to find shorter versions everywhere.
Little people in the garden. Little people in the shed.
Some of them in the bedroom bouncing on the bed.
Little people on the sea front. Little people before the fire.
One of them sitting on the toilet and lighting up a briar.
Little people in the kitchen. Little people in the sink.
Two of them in the cabinet demolishing the drink.
Little people in the pond. Little people sitting on the wall.
Several making next door’s cat decide home was better after all.
Little people on the floor. Little people swinging from the lights.
Little people on the roof where they were flying little kites.
Little people underfoot. Little people in your hair.
It didn’t matter where you looked; there’d be a little person there.
So my Uncle had chosen to continue
despite my urgent warning.
He said “I understand your point of view
but you see it’s hobbit forming.”