His favourite colour was banana yellow,
At 2am he felt kind of mellow,
Outside my window he began to bellow,
So how did he know he could wake me up,
He was as noisy as a young fox terrier pup,
Dutifully I filled his enamel cup,
Giving him bread and honey to sup.
In the spectrum of noise, in the pantheon of squeals,
How would a creature say thanks for a meal,
I’ve heard nice birds and the hairiest of herds,
But to describe the sound of possum they haven’t invented the word.
Think of someone who coughs far too much,
Or a heavy smoker who spits out stuff,
It’s basically a guttural sound of clearing the throat,
At 2am it scrubs your dreams with carbolic soap.
Possums love fruit, it’s in the book I read,
I just had to convince Pete and get it into his head.
The hairy thing looked doubtfully
At my pear or pomegranite,
He much preferred some bread and jam,
Reminds me of the people who only eat spam,
So what does it do to his stomach juice,
Imagine what happens if Animal Welfare breaks loose,
My animal days will flee like a terrified goose,
And the colour of my nights will turn to puce,
I’ll talk to Pete and ask for a truce,
Or maybe it’s safer to get a pet Moose.