Tuesday, 13 January 2009

A Kafka-esque Treatise On Jam

(This is a very high-brow work of European Literature of international import.)

Jam Sam

A strange little boy here; his name was Sam,
Sam woke one morning to find his hands made of Jam.
So he licked a finger, a thumb, and was deeply disturbed
at his ten chubby digits made of gooseberry preserve.

His parents and grandparents and sister despaired,
Sam was a bad boy, he stole - stood on chairs -
from cupboards and sideboards and the very top shelf
jars of peanut butter and honey and anything else

he could get his sticky hands on,
with Sam around, like that! it was gone.
And with such jammy hands there was nowhere to hide.
But now he remembered his mother, and she hadn't lied,
You'll turn into Jam, I promise you son
of all your Jam stealing no good will come,
best stick to veg and the odd tattie scone
Jam all the day and you wont last long.
He rolled out of bed, sticky prints on the sheets,
and quietly headed for the door, his family were asleep,
but the handle slipped through his jellied nails
and Sam sat on the floor and started to wail.

He looked at his green palm with orange peel veins
and Sam promised never to eat jam again.
Then quick as a flash he was sat up in bed
a raspberry jam sandwich on the back of his head.

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