Master B Moore

My head used to be a frying pan, and I'm used to laying on my back, but now must settle for sitting on my rim

And my arms are made from Hornby flexible track, that flap about like some manic inspector

Some old gloves were used to make my hands, and if I were to get cold, I'm sure they'd keep me warm

Toast, hot and crisp used to pop out of the slot where my neck now sits, and blackened crumbs would fall from my posterior

Each leg is fashioned from traditional Hornby 00, I'm not cheap you know

Right and left feet are made from sections of Hornby short n straight, it stiffens up my gait

Big and bold my eyes are made of washers, held in place by something called blue tac I'm sure

Master B Moore is a genius you know, for he designed me all by himself, but Mummy cut the tape

Oh, how I wish he had made it possible for me to talk, then I'd ask him to clean me, so I'd spill no more crumbs upon the floor

Oh dear, I'm so please he drew this lovely picture of me, to stick upon his bedroom wall, for

Rest assured it won't be long, before my body is popping toast for breakfast in the morn

Eggs and bacon will be sizzling in the pan, and my maker will be off to school, to tell tales of his 'Hornby 00 Man', he will forever, B Moore to me

FOOT NOTE:

This one is here to celebrate my one and only monthly 1st Place in an @PoetsPub, monthly competition, thanks to the little Moores.