The Crazymad Writer
In a tumbledown tower of ink and dreams,
Where nothing is ever quite what it seems,
Lives the Crazymad Writer, pen in hand,
Scribbling truths no one could understand.
He writes on toast, on cats, on air,
With paper hats and electric hair,
His slippers are books, his robe a rhyme,
He juggles with words, and swallows time.
He mutters in riddles, whispers in song,
Argues with commas that do him wrong,
His teacups hold oceans, storms, and tea,
And sometimes a ghost or a spelling bee.
“Reality’s boring!” he says with a grin,
Then peels off the sky and folds it in,
He talks to a chair, and the chair talks back—
They once wrote a sonnet about a yak.
Each story he spins is a curious thread,
Tied to a jellyfish, stitched to the dead,
The moon takes notes as he scribbles away,
And suns rise backwards just for a day.
He’s mad as a lorry that thinks it’s a hat,
But the world would be dull without people like that.
So if ever you find a tale strange and wild,
You’ve met the Crazymad Writer’s child.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 