I don’t want to seem like a moaner
but my uncle (as seen upon the news),
feeling alone, acquired a pre-loved cloner
he had promised faithfully not to use.
Whirring, groaning, when first turned on,
it formed a shorter, hairy, home-grown clone.
He turned it off, turned it on, and thereupon
the half-grown clone was not alone.
And that was why, my Uncle had agreed
to stop cloning in Weston-super-Mare.
So, calling on him, I was surprised indeed
to find shorter versions of him 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 seafront. 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 kicking garden gnomes.
Several making next door’s cat decide there was no place like home.
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 opted to pursue
his hirsute and diminutive transforming.
He said “I understand your point of view
but, you see, it’s hobbit forming.