In the field lay the bitternuts,
surrounded by buttercups.
Vines danced lilting jitter bugs,
whilst honouring the sutterfuts.
The moon has gone zubzub
and the flies try not to budwub.
All around the cows are good blood,
the mosquitos go woof.
In the field of the Undergrot,
wandered a naïve Zymbolgot.
He was to wave at the munderbots
and steal a fat man’s shiny yacht.
The day has gone yimyam.
On black bread goes grey jam.
As I wait for the pop man
I draw a pale horse.
‘It’s time’ said the clock face
as he licked his shiny mace.
His tonguesnails were common place,
yet only found in his spiderspace.
I’m sat alone with the bitternuts
If I eat them all, I’ll get rotten guts.
I say goodbye to my blunderbot,
It’s time to go home.
Third-year Creative Writing Student, University of Bolton