My friend has a pet that he won as a bet.
Sort of roundly square, with tufts of rough blue hair.
It has no bottom.  It has no top.
All I can see is a middle,
And that I believe is the lot.
He calls it “Spit” but it does not know its name,
Which is just as well I am told in haste,
‘cos it looks from both ends, just the same!
It keeps one eye on its food in the big red shiny bowl
But I always put it back on its face, in the hole.
The other eye just stares at the stars in night’s sky.
I swear that this is true, but I am more prone to lie.
It is true that my friend has a pet.
Part bird, part giraffe and flies a private jet.
You must all believe that I could not possibly conceive
In my wildest dreams, such a creature,
That is calm, and cute, and soft, but sometimes . . . 
may also . . . eat you!

© Stefan Nicholson