On The Tip Of Its Tongue

A what’s-it-called, you know, that flattish thing
That lives inside itself, like in a tank
Or caravan? The one that doesn’t sing
Although it has a beak? That thing that sank
Because it doesn’t swim? That wasn’t it
But almost could have been; they’re very like,
So much they could be cousins,
Just a bit
More three-dimensional. Once, on a hike,
I saw the thing it isn’t on a rock
And screamed so loud you thought I’d been attacked
And then you laughed because I’d such a shock
I dropped my aviators and they cracked?
Well, anyway, the thing that isn’t that?
A snapping one is hanging from your cat.


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