Middle Earth Lives Under My Bed - original poetry

A rainy day in mid July
Brings boredom for a little boy.
No pirates want to play today.
The dinosaurs have gone away.

They trudge back home through mud puddles,
Skipping and sloshing and slashing.
Leaving the little boy behind
To save the word today inside.

Air hangs damp, dirty, dank, listless-
Stirred about by whistles and swords
Footprints on the wall irk mother;
Ratted out again by brother.

Back again to that windowsill,
Kneeling up on the old mattress.
For a glimpse of that world out there,
Mysterious- without a care.

Grandpa smells of old tobacco.
Still his lap seems so inviting.
Inspiring's not a word I know,
But that's not what my actions show.


He tells me of another world
Where little boys can go and play
With Hobbits, Orcs and Iss-tawr-ee
At least, as best as I can say…

Now I do not whine or whimper-
Another world waits silently
When lightning fills the humid air
I carry my popgun to Bree.

My rapier punctures dragon hide,
Made out of paper it may be.
And when all has been said and done,
I fish with Ents and sing of trees.

No more will nightfall be the end
Of fun and games for one stout lad
For what brings dreams grows adventure-
Middle Earth lives under my bed.

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