Pitter patter
went the mad hatter.
As he boiled the tea,
within the mother tree.
Laughing maniacally,
he called his friends unusually.
First came the rabbit,
who shivered out of habit.
Then came the lizard,
who was old and withered.
Little baby mouse,
who came from the house.
Together the laughed,
as if it was their craft.
Throwing cups and plates,
against the iron gates.
They were happily mad,
it was all they had.
Soon things died down,
and became a ghost town.
Till the next day,
they waited to play.
For their tea party,
kept them hearty.
Pitter patter,
went the mad hatter.
As he boiled the tea,
withing the old mother tree.
YOU ARE READING
The Bleeding Pen of a Writer
PoetrySome old , some new, some dying to be true. A collection of my poetry
