The Crazymad Writer (Returns!)

The Crazymad Writer was back once more,
With feathers for socks and jam on the floor.
He laughed at the kettle, then swallowed a map,
Declared it a Tuesday, and took a long nap.

His pencil was twitching, alive with glee,
It scribbled rude limericks all over his knee.
The wallpaper sighed, the curtains took flight,
And the teapot exploded in sheer delight.

He wrote with a sandwich, edited with jam,
Argued with Oxford about the word “blam!”
His footnotes were riddles, his index a maze,
His glossary danced for several days.

“I’m not mad,” he said with a wink and a shrug,
While whispering secrets into a plug.
“I simply see things the others don’t see—
Like giraffes in the sugar and moons in my tea!”

His desk had grown legs and strolled round the room,
His clock ticked in polka and smelled of perfume.
The typewriter giggled, the ink bottle sneezed,
While he wrestled a comma and shouted, “I’m pleased!”

So next time your spoon tries to quote Baudelaire,
Or your curtains start humming a waltz in the air,
Don’t panic or scream—don’t shout or take flight—
You’ve simply been blessed by the Crazymad Writer’s delight.